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Which can be brushed out long and fineto lie across a pillowor bunched and scrunched into an angryknot of rain before it is undone, when long hanks of it hang
Thomas Farynor, Baker to the King,Left his oven burning with the firewood nearby.The embers muttered, the little flames took wing
Next door live three old ladies. They’re sisters, well into their eighties, but to us kids, they seem beyond time.
It is midnight in the ice rinkAnd all is cool and still.Darkness seems to hold its breathNothing moves, until
The moon was married last nightand nobody saw,dressed up in her ghostly dressfor the summer ball.
Hello! thanks for callingI'm just off on my bikeThat's my room up thereTake a look if you like.
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand,spreading its fingers out as if newto the shore. It can’t quite believe in it.It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.
The space is a friend.I tell it what hurts.
I tell it why I'm not good.The space is a friend.I tell it the bother I'm in.It won't let me tell lies.
What do we do with a difference?Do we stand and discuss its oddityor do we ignore it?
Do we shut our eyes to itor poke it with a stick?Do we clobber it to death?
Aren’t you cold and won’t you freeze,With branches bare, you winter trees?You’ve thrown away your summer shift,Your autumn gold has come adrift.