the socking. The schooner ticking itself to the bay. Fed light of moon on my mouth. I knew you briefly flinging about, the glassy balcony, lofting the seeds so to birds you were. You were birds about to come to the skiffs. It was next. I mean you to be next to the sea, haul the falling stuff in your cuffs, planting things in the sea to wit. Paul of you is to wooly roses and the queer heart of parting besides. And being little in the scruptuous down, in the fleece feeling thighs and hair. We, as opposed to noonwet weathering, the people preening their plastic jackets, are next to the sea together, as happens. Long after the boats go totally, the sea going so that it quits, in essence, and a spot on the water for plane reflections. I have this sign for us. It’s the strongest longest sign of starting, a bendable harness for sheep and horses. A corn husk, of sorts, gnawed.

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