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JILL JONES |
The Futures
To
learn branch
secret wood’s sadness
day
finishes me
approximately in fog
fire’s
speech method
impossible outside time
how
much is
polished extinguished distant
ask
here future
with each colour
brush
inflects error
the white plenty
On form
as if it's form that matters
pick peeling plaster from the wall
what? my lines span in skin
cars fit the street sometimes gingerly
no right angles here ask perfection
broke branches maple light cries in
coins by size count in journeys
your curves will always detain me
then I turn out to clouds
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