This can be your sacred practice
first thought
ironically courteous, breathing
carrying dirt in pails
I shall be mowed down
all the same
The young child neglects
to send itself signals
The horticulturalist, without knowing
is unable to find any explanation
accepts the unorthodox
interpretation of angelic help
We all know this fairy tale girl
myself like casual fury
making indiscriminate love
indifferent thrust
In everything
the shimmer of creation
slick life
One must bow
I have only this one dress
No one can use me.
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