is a mincing maiden, two turkeys to the poor, winds its way through the turnstile. Your hands are damaged, or it is white, slim, with shoulder blades installed. The braid swings are like a band across the back. An airport official is holding her on the glass door, nods in recognition of a bow.
between the columns of the opera house, the body of a crow. The half-open beak, flies blind eye sockets. Zündelnd the Überhängsel of a small, squishy body. Blood flamed the milky juice wound. A wing hangs loosely on his body burned, stored as.
Koken has lake views and the roof full of dried fruit, apple slices, plum bodies. Her hands are large and black pumpkin herb of the walnut harvest. Koken shuffles their Filzfüßen through the garden, to the wash house, the kitchen, the water bucket in the pear tree, then the screaming telephone. The iron listeners it is hard on the chest, pale green, 1937. Koken takes off with two Hands, sings briefly in the handset, light is the monster a clatter. The kitchen door moves along on its hinges.
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