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Easy Girl.

Easy girl, steady on your feet,
Miss Pretty says half in jest and not so,
Bringing the sky a soft off blue,

Standing by the sea, her voice as brittle breeze,
Her hands spread St Francis like,
Talking to birds, asking the same old thing,

Which, being out of key and blood red,
Looms about her like a lizard’s kiss
And reaches to the horizon’s far farewell.

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