The sky is blue in its blackness
Firm as fresh fish
Pungent
A girl much like Eva Braun stretches towards the moon
As flatcars trundle by on the tracks
Why not run away right then and there
To a concrete octagonal house
Stuccoed white in good repair
Books on the shelves with intriguing titles
And later the two share a meal, taking turns serving each other
Quietly such that the clock two rooms away seems loud
Echoing in the hall
Like amorati, but then
nooseless and tired he ends the day to begin it again tomorrow

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