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1 did investigate & vest my form

(who only a blue shine)


I let raw water know in smear approach,

hear,

why empty at the sculpt

every soft, mean mount vein

have dry and rigid—no—

deep, like concrete miasma

& which her scream too

above is how

I’m so full and angry

when grace should after loom green,

come, & you there


some canvas will never see

about me                         he was out

we waste mad            but always free