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ALEX BERNSTEIN PASSING THE AUDUBON CENTER BOATHOUSE You text me to say birds are gross. Trees affect me in a completely theoretical way. I triangulate thinking about the future of the succulents I want to buy later. A child falls off her bicycle. Her mother says, good, do it again. She pretends to tie her shoe. It's perfect how she found it. The guide names the only flower that grows in this pavilion, but I'm not listening, which involves all my ideas about lichen and lakes, especially the one about the banker who every day pawned his clothes on his way home from the office. |