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Combing Beamish Cove
Broc Rossell

there long again a motion from me tightness a good one fathered up in a dim-lit photo sunset circularly old reaching farflungs but me, fiberoptic meowing the laugh of a parade in the trajectory of ball-bearings packed in a suitcase swans sank when you arrived, doves rose into the nets of soupmakers there are more than birds in my head but you beneath the swans your approach rustles like bed sheets intimating air - sweet bicycle's flexion, your pooling navel wrinkles from bedsheets, fossils of sea-grass foreign phrase drenched in King Arthur: a gyante thus asaylle and guyd riddence - so as I scrabble for a pencil to trace your outline the eclipse of you burns through the white paper like a cigarette's penumbra of impending flame, the black shadow of a great bird pouring through me headlong into open world.

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