Pigeons gathering on wet slate
Love broke out
The train is empty. It doesn't want to leave
Banquet
I am trying to remember, trying to believe it
After the Coma
Unrelationshiply making love
He asked them, "Play the Birdie Song"
It's like a wound that opens and then opens
From Thursday to Friday
Wondering about small American towns, dusty roads
Frailty
Long, slow railway stations, the darknesses
He wakes crying
It will be something to talk about at least
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