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When you walk down and your

spine drops over your pelvic

frustrations.  There are green waves

as big as the dead, shifting

in between the mind and

the soul.  You walk down

to Belize, it wasn’t waiting for you.

You dream of another country, a new

republic.  It’s a miracle made out of

raindrops, your republic.  You want mountains

in bolivia, strangleholds in sweden.  The shoulder

spins, the ocular muscles squint.

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