Wearing some degree of sea,
A bulge that I flipped
And gnarled in the shore.
No mark from a no mark.
As the sun set,
She seemed sausage in brine,
I should have wept then,
Or put my Walkman on.
But I went home and,
Bovine tracking,
Pulled her
From the ether then.
The best.
As you were.
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