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Peri
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windy
on windowpanes that shine like hornets who look daringy into their own reflection peeling its way under worn, marbling wood and lovely white slices of candlelight wavering and sweet
broken
in the way that limbs from trees hang gently and sway gently the morning after a thunderstorm that wrapped it's arms around foliage and homes with windoews glowing gently and people inside whispering gently
daisies
in a field of daisies all summer gold in the setting sun and silver in the dusk i close my eyes but imagine they're open and imagine its morning a late evening brand of lust
vacant
our cabin when we're busy and our home when we're away empty vacation rentals-- it depends on where we stay
baguette
makes me feel ridiculous like poetry is halfway pointless a joke, three quarters of a joke and a dash of stereotype with some offense, maybe a teaspoon make that a tablespoon and the recipe decides not to add up difficult
swept
swept under the rug swept away swept off her feet and caught in the wind singing
amplified
conversations in my own language ring from stranger to stranger for stranger and I'm caught in the middle and quiet and calm and listening to myself and thinking in a language that used to be foreign
soda
Cool soda sipped in the summer months; I am surrounded by sun shining off of a lake's surface.
butterflies
butterflies in my stomach is a cliche but still translates better than an elaborate description of what I feel when the plane takes off and when it lands somewhere new and I am in the butterfly's stomach and that too is cliche
cartridge
ink cartridge in the printer cartilage is the frame of my ear cartilage is the frame for a shark but not a cardinal whose car's bridge is pointless, it could fly to cambridge
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