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Behind the House
The awning cuts the sun just so a lemon pie slice warm and yellow freshly sectioned across the deck beams she sits soaking steaming dreams sweet heat glowing orange through eyelids He emerges from the breezeway cool indigo of easy creeping shade the shadow of his shoulder lops off the point of her desert island Her eyes remain closed to the stain of his silhouette as he speaks as he waits as he finally moves away back into numb gray The peeling silence burns and needles her skin and weeps from her pores as her sharp-edged isosceles shifts and shatters against the bro- ken lattice
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