with his wordsin my headI slept for thirtyor forty foreverswhile the grass shriekedand the trees tremoredit was crazyletting my youthpass like thatgiving myself upto the abstract fearsbalconies collapsingover the east riveras far as the eye could seeuntil all is miniaturewind over waterwithout endwhen I am deadI will have somethingto say about death& all the men stretched outa girl must be a graveyardI am a descendant of fieldsand want to keep my mind off it, especially
-Deborah Landau
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