That the Prospect Park ducks returnis a wonder. Once, in a botched attemptat a romantic pavilion sittinga spring bringing kissing sessionderailed by the smell of rottingdrops of alcohol is molding bottles—parties to which I would never be privy(sheltered by roves—the blessing of work hours)a duck ambled bymissing its beak.
How terribly disturbingits bared tongueits homeless homeits [...]
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