• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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Sharp as metal eyesight
the iron fork is clean
as a collar-less shirt
denim dungarees
a starched pinafore
all those stern faces.
I bet if you pinched
their prayers, squashed
their long necks, tickled
the church spire that
the unsoiled couple
might contour a smile,
tis a human thing ain't it?