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Sally Martin II
The bags that sag under glassy eyes are purple
black. His face is downward drawn with pencil neck
and bow bent back. Devoid of chest a mass of thinly muscled
bone and flesh. He strokes Mary Martin at a soirée
by the garden wall. She sings lilacs to hummingbirds
as rainbows rise and fall. She whispers wonders wrapped
in riddles wove in layers, her looks, her touch, her smell,
at a soirée by the garden wall.
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