Humidity. This is the red flower moon full of... This is an anonymous lady shouting out, grilling, "Don't be sorry, honey!" [to a man with her] of me, after there was no altercation, but only kindly manners, as he'd come quickly around a hidden bend, jogging toward my cart as I stepped aside, said I was sorry, there were only peaceful smiles but— This is the Supermarket. This is Anonymous Lady vs. Anonymous Lady Me, This is Savagery in the cereal aisle, unreturned, this is Me placing Anonymous You Lady nicely into my poem. This is no one lost and no one won, this is a cluster of cars blocking a different road almost every turn we took. But I came home aplenty—with two books from the library: one a slim blue biography about Edna St. Vincent Millay and thoughts of her poetry. The first thing I'd seen I'd found within it was a surprise inside, a bright bookmark with stars and flowers and red and black and yellow and white curving shapes and I would look at it again, it could be anything I want, this is a string of numbers on it too, and...and afterwards, I got my plums, yes, two fresh black plums finally! Two plums among other fruits, but will they be yellow inside or will they be red? Who will know but me and maybe you? I'd never really sought out to read a play, I'd picked one among a long row of some very old books of velvet continuity. I didn't pick it for the color though, I picked it for a play and the copy for the look of well antiquity—my shopping cart was actually too big—I picked it for the action of Sir William Shakespeare.
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