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Strong arms folding
women’s clothes, but
they don’t feel the wind carrying
bombshells, spilling over
mountains, dripping with
cabbage, littered
with dillweed. He stands,
with bravery in his hair, then
sleeps under the pine trees. They
creep in through the
garden, tomatoes and rooms without
roofs, growling for approval and
that one strip of justinian
courtship.

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