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A swallow must find the right kind of the soil

He came in mid-March with eyes bluer than the deepest point of the ocean and he was an ocean ended searching for the last drops to create a tiny mud bead where his dried marrow can crawl in pin-feathers developed ahead of time introducing that taste of blood which stood like obscure cumulonimbus above his shrunken chest as a warning bells were shouting at loudest so no one could hear his tones but I took that glance at your notebook stealthily and saw through those written letters how that cloud colored your eyes

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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