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Brin made up this song, sitting on the cement steps
of our front porch, playing an acoustic guitar:
Pull shorts and a t-shirt from the pile
in the closet, walk barefoot
to the store, buy candy bars and coke.
Finish the bottle—thoughts make funny
faces and sound like people shuffling
under our window. The sun comes
from the land the city leveled
in 1963, big on
its downward slope, it stirs the acids
and bases in the tissue between
your bones and the quilt. The hair
on your head is a mad conductor’s.
Your face is a blowfish. You are
a busy beaver laughing—when
sleep tickles you to death, you spasm
until you become fish.
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