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... lost our bones somewhere in down--high up, pretending wide windows were opaque: but the sonic blessing of skin, howling New York morning lurch, reminded us of our vitrines, our rituals behind glass like paper gossip. (These were experiments in style. I like some of it, but not all of it. It's not me, though. And poetryslamming didn't like them. Ah well, back to the drawing board.)

http://sitarstring.livejournal.com/2077.html
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Published: 9 months, 1 week ago (Wed, 08 Oct 2008 04:24:05 PDT); 1156 bytes
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