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the first pumpkin of my season. The sun was hitting the water in tiny explosions; the grass was as pure as a revival meeting. I thought of your smile on my long walk home with the leaves dropping aimlessly and the sound of roller skates. When the door opened you burst upon me like a diamond. |
Walking past the mental hospital I smell coffee brewing, and picture the muttering madmen measuring and pouring, preparing for another perfect landing. |
and part injection: I hope it has the clarity of wind-chimes or the bloody sparkle of broken glass.
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waiting for the rain to end I have been thinking of the rain in San Francisco erasing the folds of clothing from the statues, forming beads on the waxy face of Chinatown, hounding the poets out of their safe alleys. At night, while the harbor dissolves, assassins wait knowingly in the sinister hills. If all of Asia were flooded, this is how it would smell.
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