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It is a cold day but the fat boy sweats, Giggling his jowls to bouncing blubber, Cunning, prodding stubby fingers In the joint behind the knee, Grabs locket-twists of gilded hair. His feverish pink and freckled skin Jolts against me like the noise. Uneasily, I stir: The sealed bus enfolds us In its velocity and spaces, Far from the silvered sea. Which breaks. Crump beside the dunes. All along the shore gulls view Perspectives on infinity. |
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