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the old androgynous one watches the street tirelessly. her hours are the sun’s hours. all business except extravagant fuchsia slippers—sharp underline to beige robe, skin, hair—a faded lesson in color- lessness. she lives a stone’s throw away, a heart’s throwaway. I throw my voice, but nothing stays colorfast. drained by time and gravity (those damned democracies) her lifesblood lingers in her feet. vigil ends with faint pink footprints—a matched set of jewels left as witness. in memoriam of steadfastness, liberty …


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