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Jan 2019
He, she, they,
Called out but once
Into red flowers, gravel paths, and steam,
then resurfaced somewhere in **
Without stepping on the sea

Lost, drinking in a bath of silence,
bleached under fingernails,
and left
The eye at the centre of the city,
where we all have names
but no address
Kenn Rushworth
Written by
Kenn Rushworth  North
     FraisDeLaFerme, MayC and Elysia Veildorn
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