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We are the ones in steel gray. We are American gray, gray with an “a,” with brushed aluminum and chemical polish and hairlines tapering across the horizon. We are dipped into bins individually, then baked in ovens until not-so-very-hard. We are dark umbers, shimmery creams, but we don’t glow – we skin it. We are dragon red and lusterous gold and when the sun sets, “orange” you glad I didn’t say banana?  It’s 9pm, 10pm, 11pm and we are called-in and driving and we know we know the numbers but they don’t come quickly, do they? We are projections sprawled across 3 seas. We are automated and verging and metal roses, Tahitian blues, raspberries bobbing in violet satin. We are nothing if not dashing , not sparkling, not unlike melons if you cut them correctly, so juicy, so new, so we are and replete/ I say / replete / we are hangtags flapping and localized. We are bags  inside clamshells inside of bags. And the line does not end, the line does not end, the line stair-steps lickety-split and double rainbows and turns into wood at the gate; but not once do we look back. No lookie. No peeks.

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