old man Rodya, or at least the bent-over version Sonya retrievesfrom the railway station, neck shortened into fur coat, handsopen secrets or frost-lite spiderbites splayed overher traveling coat, as he steadies himself against her, says wellwhat is there to say. train sneaks in, awning over them, dawningof little smile: she says, well, hopefully a great… Continue reading poem: conclusion
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 