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I have a home in my son’s hand.

The pier is out, the quay closed at noon.

You can sob, so be it, as if dates, as

though you had an oven of dough

everyone wanted. Day, I’m a over it;

out rowing an O.K. used pear,

sailing your barcode, you shop with the pain

you’re out now, avowing.

Our row cake vice squeezing through

sewer hour, I sail mystery O

sewer! Made on that pall of rat veil

A forms a dream navy

in the unclear I don’t miss saying.

Janelas

Shane Book

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