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Crevice Weeds Writings—«waifs of many a wreck»—motley and fragmentary writings—sketchy and faulty—failed, perhaps—unconfined—along the borders, upon the thresholds and into the chinks of literature, «as foam that the sea-winds fret»…

End of Summer

Alessandro Zabini





Mote-soiled hands, hidden cold wind,
and dripping he spread refined shops’ sweat,
the man who did hunt me in the uncold sky,
in rage, and once in my dear desperation;
arms beyond the hedge of factories’ morning,
spitting slow blood.

I know.

What an awful cocktail of reek, light blue dust,
no blood-stained smile—Dust.
What sorrowful and silent grimaces.




The end of summer (fold-in),
Listen To The Sound








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