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it wanted them looking at it and saying this, how the color
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I have known what it was, this thing, known
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I am Federico García Lorca
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beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
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outside a ring of concertina wire / circles around a small collapse.
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And the crickets,
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Perhaps this thing I am calling kindness
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though scars fade. I have memory on loan
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Outside it is autumn, the philosophical season,
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whim, as if there were no time, and there isn’t,