a clockwise wind is arbitrary and has no physiological feet 
but it is convenient for its pure tones, for its tedious water, 
and this is the effect of its capital, its umbrage, its centuries of 
dry hybridity. 
it is true colour. it is red and green and 
embodiment is its chamber or hall. 
the reverberation of time is 
the impedance, 
the dependency of its landscape. 
our fixing glazes the internal littoral. 
lined with an absorbent fringe, swiveled and jeweled, this wind works 
red air through the bright flush of thighs.

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cs/djd