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There Is Blood Beneath Every Layer of Skin
I'm going to read a few of my poems and I thought I'd choose ones that I could imagine speaking to Brenda's poems in some way. So often I have been half way through cookie and have not seen the punchline winging in. Do we offer the object identity or a mind swings slow open? Perfect its answer. The knots are too sturdy, a summer's warm. Other stuff takes the mind, a book, a bird. Pomedinees sweated but loved the sun. Girl, you ate the cookie and also are the cookie. You sit the step and you see down cookie, but logic pokes its fingers in your ribs. It blows you as a soap