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algid.i am going to tell you about lace,
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the way of hexagons and parabolas.
this is it: tomorrow, i will teach
you how to paint, like skies and
trees, and fingernails, though you
will tell me you would much rather
be taught poetry. i will tell you that it's
so, you wrap my hair in gum leaves
and read like the romans. i can not
understand, because beauty is
irrelevant. why you tell me that my
palms are wonderful, i will never know.
you will ask me again to be taught
poetry. i will tell you that it is
so, you pull my finger tips to your
you breath like the autumn and glass
jars. i will tell you then, and only once
so you will listen, that lace, and hexagons,
and parabolas are irrelevant.
i will say,
i do not believe in poetry.
InterventionHe let himself in through an unlocked window, following a cool breeze and far-away barking dogs. The window squeaked a bit as he eased it open, fractured moonlight scattering across a dark tableau of shadows.
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The floor creaked beneath his boots as he stood, surveying the scene. There she was: the girl he'd come to see. Seated at her desk, head down, backlit by the gentle blue cast of an open laptop. It was so peaceful, but he'd been summoned because of recent violence done here. He sniffed experimentally: blood, cordite, something else
ah, honeysuckle. He liked that smell. Despite himself he smiled a little as he eased closer for a look.
Her name was April. He'd known that before he'd come. Some of her personal details were tickling his memory even now, but he preferred a more hands-on approach
like, the laptop. He eased it from its place on the desk, disconnecting