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Trying to touch the light. These foothills, January desperate,. White brush strokes clinging to tan garage roofs,. Caterpillar tracks filled with coffee-colored mud. And melting snow, roads. Leading to quarries that push against backyards. I am inexorably drawn to. These things that destroy me. Fuck the moth and the flame,. Rather the razor wire of empty chairs,. The jagged scars of one-way streets,. The barely-noticed and the smitten.
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