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write a poem about the yellow thing screaming through the book of wall opened up by rain that stayed like a clock spores frothing once hung by the dam nail
placed aside like a bookmark on a bench a decision to sneeze a story shut, and click before you pluck and smear the screen into something yellow to show and say 'oh how beautiful things grow'
there are too many rooms that merge in a corner for the colour thing to foam and many morning hands to untangle the frothing off the nail
