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red with the acid (violence of my spittle)

God has a passion for the sun and is always overheating the house

Earth lover the taste of your anger is apple seeds

In the first garden there was a tree, and in that tree a boat caught in its branches. Like a moon on a postcard

The small sailboat overturned by the wind held there by the fingers of twigs

We are all of us longing for Africa though we don’t know it