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by on May 6, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Call to me, plugged and Quivering as I am.   I’m yours, your Scatterling. I’m a full–thrust and heaving Creak of outer–skin. It’s my fuselage that drums; a bent twist and yank at the entry. You steer — you always have and I’m Peppered with dirt from the Last world, the Lost world — we’ve...

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