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a whitewashed fence looks orange beneath the lamplight and
i think she's beautiful, limpid on last autumn's leaves

her knees are stark against the dirt back drop as the bruises blossom
like varying species of olives mounted upon her calves

hand in hand, we stumble through the deadened plots where
the drying sheets look more like billowing, middle-eastern scarves

and the pink fireworks rocket across the asphalt as her
stomach explodes out her throat and into a slew of adjectives