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The monsters that
she stroked, were not something
real and she took a step south,
full of ink and shoes of steel,
stepping into caligraphic
adventures. She knows what the
birds are singing, her boyfriends
jeep at the end of the world, his
jeep spun over, he doesn’t call
her. She doesn’t know how to run, she was only
taught to dance, a pink scarf
floating over blue tiles, across the boarder
burning in the sun, caught on cacti, lost
in the sounds of a big, mysterious,
unnamed river. She sees an old man,
he becomes younger when she passes him,
his eyes are blue and his skin is
black, painted that way,
stained that way. She becomes a lizard
and crawls a little further,
but she’s out of paint,
or ink, or whatever the liquid is
that came dripping down her legs.

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