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Laine Derr lives in a city -- noisy and tethered.
My drinking, once an epicene beauty,
lives in a gimcrack city. While sauntering to work,
daydreaming, it picks slut-fluff from overcoat
and argues the usage of sparrow-fart with those
who pause. Though effable, a chawbacon no longer,
it imagines time as a honeycomb [a checkered bliss].
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