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| who owns the small stones... the sound of water filling a glass water over stone and small fish gone at the touch of a shadow you're here unexpectedly your hair annoyed by sleep painted toes chipped on your belly: foetal signatures (in another room your bed: hieroglyphs of saliva on a pillow) you talk of blue boats and juniper wood yes and the scales of fish the blood of fish you say is pale the curtains you made rise fall the window is becoming transparent today we'll paint 4 walls and carry an african mat through invisible streets |
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