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Camouflage

Garbed in pastels and duns I went, though there were whims of crimson, and blue ebullience. And I was always just around the corner, safe in softness, empty of the passings by. On a day, I thought to write lines with hooks and sinkers. A thing to underlie, a thing to fill this tired camouflage.

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Chapters

One house had hooks and stairs. Sharp corners and forest. This house is smooth, considerate, and many-plugged. Cats, exploring, find concrete caves down a flight. Loud laundry in the kitchen, but nobody is bitchin’.

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