pressed under glassthe last goldfinch whistleslowly solidifiesinto earwaxuntroubled by looterswho choose flashier artifactsfrom this dilapidated museumclose to closing timein one diorama the leavesare already witheringin another, farmers turn played-outsoil toward the sunwhich is kept in a separatedisplay case on the mezzanineright above the blowholeof a great blue whale
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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