The person in the teardrops of diaries, the person who writes government warnings, the person in the woodcut of age-old stars and a hundred years of wind–this person wears jewelry of black meteors tinted with opaque revolutions of the future, this person carries blue islands in sparkling hands and sees behind the shadow of my next syllable; this person has the smoking laughter scholarship. Dancers are clustered in our tresses and flower dreams, and they can taste the smoke from our turret on the lake of melodies, they give eloquence to the morning waltz and water inland wildflowers.

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