bikes she is all the red square cathedralsdipped in honey.krasnaya, they say archaically.to my ancient soulshe is an lp’s grooves, that smileupon fresh rained pavement or,gliding under the silvery stars,cosmos borealis. she rode her turquoise bike awayon a rainy day near the end of the world.she had an empty wire basket on the rusted front.  five of us we’re…

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