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February MAG
When the icicles hang
Down from the gutters, on the houses
of everyone you know, I spend
all day driving the yellow stripe,
flying my hand through the air,
smiling
at nothing, breathing
the golden air of the sunshine state
into my mouth. All day my lungs accept
what it is. At home,
I wouldn't even crack the window
but here I take it all in.
© Anonymous
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