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Again washed our fingers with dry soap and dry wind --
The fruit-white fat clogged
Our tusky nails and by evening, in the lanterned gazebo,
Stunk.
Too, our palms, winter-treed and rotten, shone like fish poo,
Go home, said children,
No brats, in fact, we'll roll up our sleeves and bleep
The cherry ginger ale,
Which left our fingers sticky, and, after our jacket pockets,
Linty.
So out into the flannelled fields again, crackling, doing our fingers
With dry soap and dry wind.
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