Some vague image of you as a mother cooking eggs frying bacon or
you hopping with foot on a heel and one foot almost on a heel with your business suit or you painting gulls flying over a New England morning as fishing boats float by with one gull perching on the remnant of a fallen pier The pier was the self-portrait you never posed if I had, perchance, darling--
now I’m strictly speaking hypothetically, two doves, one white and one sort of greyish, you know, dirty and with a broken wing, probably sickly, about to ‘kick the can’ |
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