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Sport 23: Spring 1999
Lines
page 167
Lines
The wind means something
to lavender. A blues riff doesn't.
Between scones and black forest
gateau stretches a tightrope.
You try to make the main course, you make
a meal of your life. I'd like
a grant to spend at least five
minutes on every park bench in New Zealand.
I could sleep under the moon's continuous
poem, find lines like
money in the street,
throw them away in the morning.
If you gave me anything
I'd keep it.