

Look. A poem.RedLook. A poem.
For years, it worried my mother my strange aversion to the flavor of water.
I never carried anything with me for long, save for the spheres I found
everywhere,
ducking glossy dark head beneath
the dining room table to search between
chair legs and feet for the thin-skinned vessels that carried my liquids.
To roll one before me would put such a stop to the racedozens scattered shining
and fragrant while I, small and like a snake, wound sinuously excited through
forests of old carpet, the a
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