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she steps over the sand dunes

when it is foggy and her jazz

playing servent warms his spoons

with fire dull like rawest topaz

and milk as clear as deep azure

she sticks her hand for what the sea has,

the poorest fish who can’t endure

and from her leg drips mother’s mercy

named for what she calls her cure,

the fish at the bottom of her sea

spreading forth aquatic toons,

darting down with controversy

 

 

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