gingham, the shell which I resent
having to dress; which fabric flows for
which event I'd prefer if it hangs stiff
in the breeze, I can't countenance holidays
no-one throws themselves all in
anyway, is it a miracle I'm open to if not
looking for joy and could I also hold joy
waiting in the freezing spit as an equal to
the heat sink I become by June, same face,
same aversion to guilt an islet for myself.
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