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To Lunge at the Herd

The best dinosaur was a flower. It sent a child into horse lands. It repeated rhythmic phrases of sound that could be words. The dawn of something, following a night of else.

The dinosaur of light and dark swooned in the federation of conflict, drama, and pointless remarks by Republicans. The edge came off the knife, drew inference from the piety of party.

The best dinosaur rose in document, singing ages of processes, processes that could bear adjectives. Colour nurtured new, again and again. Green meant the play of light on seeing the day spin. Blue signaled the wastrel sky and sea.

Horse lands became bison lands again. We learned of plain facts, between us. We aren't retreats, always. We have accepted a mutual landing in marsh, salt marsh, the edge of everything and anything.

The sea air rises to a flower.

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