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At the Frick

Unfiltered mind: eyes brown-black, quick
as needed, no more. Wet grasses
deadened leaves, a cold sun flashes.
All soil, scent: her canvas at the Frick.

No road no rope no call contains
the striding wild-tongued city-wolf,
Frick Park her freedom, limbs engulf
treed-trails, hills emptied from sharp rains.

— For Sophie, 2002 – 2014

2014-11-25 10.47.49

2014-11-25 10.50.41

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