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Formaldehyde skin pulled tight behind a gauzy veil.
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relics : 40 years : a poem
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Swelling timber beams squeeze out freshly hammered nails.
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Passing piled stones the road reveals some rot of cottage.
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Lungs drought baked draw dry breaths of dust.
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Delivered from a crisis of common names you ripen with the first blush of...
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To hell with garden boundaries.
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Fired soils crack as ancient stoneware.
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You spend these quiet years unravelling.
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The parlour folds.