Spend the day at the seashore. We'll leave with souvenirs. We'll leave our baby there with his bucket of seashells and with a parting prayer. He'll cry his baby tears. As we drive to the border we'll leave a trail of clues, like bronzed baby shoes. By the light of a new moon, we'll find a road that ends in flowers and stems. Human speech is like a cracked pot on which we beat out rhythms for bears to dance to when we mean to make music to wring tears from the stars.
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