gull-gray waves and salted shorelinesthe bay of the english, anchors weighedalong the severed lines of blood ishistorycrawling art, sprawling armschilly walls and chilled bones, wrapped inrags curling smoke from parted lips as trafficlumbers bywaiting for a bus that apologizes whenclosed(but never when it’s late, hm)a culture so rich, it’s near religious.

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