Boy,
Patrick Milian
The hurt kids growing up like you can expect isn’t the
hungry kind of guts yarned and knotted in blue rope. I’m
hardly qualified to give you an informed account of
how carefully gardened yards yield the most brilliant flowers,
but, having cut gushing yellows and reds from tangled, rough-
hewn kinds of gardenia and yarrow, I’ve learned some about
the horrific cultivation to be gained yearningly from
haphazardly cast grain. Yesterday I saw, woven into an arbor,
little twists of daylilies I thought were weeds
lodged with total dexterity through the most alien-
looking tarantulas of daisies. The new question: why rope
looped and twinged enough decides, then, to weave into itself
and leave the tinge of disaster thoroughly. Your hurt’s
the task of daffodils: the arduous blooming.
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hungry kind of guts yarned and knotted in blue rope. I’m
hardly qualified to give you an informed account of
how carefully gardened yards yield the most brilliant flowers,
but, having cut gushing yellows and reds from tangled, rough-
hewn kinds of gardenia and yarrow, I’ve learned some about
the horrific cultivation to be gained yearningly from
haphazardly cast grain. Yesterday I saw, woven into an arbor,
little twists of daylilies I thought were weeds
lodged with total dexterity through the most alien-
looking tarantulas of daisies. The new question: why rope
looped and twinged enough decides, then, to weave into itself
and leave the tinge of disaster thoroughly. Your hurt’s
the task of daffodils: the arduous blooming.
