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Stockings
Brian Dickson Forgive me for embracing you so late in life. As a young Jehovah’s Witness you only existed as sad things with holes, imagined lumps of coals dangling at the bottoms, pieces to chalk doomed sidewalks. Now, from the mantel I want Neruda in your knit-pits, scribbling odes to calves, heels, magic of arches, love between toes. |