tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88735059317695001742024-03-05T02:52:52.557-05:00The Hungry Ponyyou are a beastLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-12000382068845409882013-10-12T13:00:00.001-04:002013-10-12T13:00:47.985-04:00CedarI am crushed <br />
between the top of the sky <br />
<br />
and the jagged lamps <br />
of the city below <br />
<br />
This is the only way <br />
to talk of <br />
<br />
being massaged gradually <br />
to openness<br />
<br />
left afterwards<br />
<br />
in the pummeled air <br />
free to move and do <br />
<br />
watching the cedars burn <br />
as though lit by my hand <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-91220612649491358172012-10-24T11:10:00.000-04:002012-10-24T11:10:49.528-04:00For Detroit I am close enough<br />
to the city <br />
<br />
it is shelves <br />
of light <br />
<br />
it falls off <br />
like a noose <br />
<br />
I make a drawing <br />
of the noose<br />
<br />
it falls<br />
as though <br />
I am a ledge <br />
<br />
I draw <br />
the ledge <br />
<br />
it falls like guilt <br />
cold, <br />
shining <br />
<br />
if I draw <br />
the buildings fill <br />
with rivers, trees<br />
birds <br />
<br />
I beg to plow<br />
<br />
open the mouth <br />
of guilt<br />
<br />
soil and creatures <br />
spilling out <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-29107940331838866122012-06-25T11:54:00.000-04:002012-06-25T11:57:35.215-04:00Upon Your Returnalone in the house<br />
with few sounds<br />
<br />
sometimes an <br />
insect bumping into <br />
the panes<br />
<br />
pouring over maps<br />
stacking books <br />
just so <br />
<br />
the breeze <br />
sucks my hands <br />
out the window<br />
<br />
living in this <br />
smashed down <br />
skyline <br />
<br />
it's been easier <br />
to write <br />
nothing at all<br />
<br />
avoiding language<br />
by moving it <br />
in heaps <br />
around the room<br />
<br />
this morning <br />
it won't lie still<br />
<br />
barking out of <br />
my fingertips <br />
until <br />
<br />
I tell you<br />
this is the real <br />
beginning <br />
<br />
every morning <br />
love<br />
will be pressed into <br />
our palms<br />
<br />
like a coin from <br />
a doting relative <br />
<br />
<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-49379807613818002152012-06-09T09:46:00.000-04:002012-06-09T09:46:11.896-04:00the rough sketch of an inability to writethere are no words to eat<br />
the city is barren <br />
I can't see anything <br />
<br />
poetics <br />
lost to<br />
<br />
to bricks <br />
<br />
this world in the morning<br />
is a quick heat <br />
and feeling nothing<br />
<br />
perhaps only a need <br />
to be lifted up <br />
by my hair <br />
<br />
but what do I know <br />
of this immaculate season? <br />
<br />
finding things from within<br />
is murk, like river bottom <br />
and the last sip in the glass <br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-54342383086228891152012-04-27T09:37:00.001-04:002012-04-27T09:37:55.850-04:00To be youngIt's not missing <br />
the moon sinking over <br />
the city,<br />
<br />
A deep clementine falter. <br />
<br />
Its not missing us, <br />
you sway <br />
in our<br />
used to be <br />
<br />
Time <br />
is simple<br />
<br />
ours, unerring <br />
<br />
I sink to my cigarette knees <br />
Sometimes <br />
<br />
Bearing up the memory <br />
A farm field bird <br />
<br />
Wood floor wings <br />
<br />
The red suspender <br />
Days <br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-23394453210773991002012-01-09T09:45:00.001-05:002012-01-09T09:45:33.516-05:00Blank Black Printjust this morning<br />
<br />
the bodies unearthed, <br />
tallied like <br />
stacked wood<br />
<br />
I've seen <br />
the blank black<br />
print, <br />
etched<br />
in undertows <br />
<br />
<br />
the color of blood<br />
is your new home <br />
<br />
You are the good <br />
the do ing <br />
of good <br />
<br />
While<br />
my saddle sits at home <br />
<br />
my heat snatched up <br />
fled and lifted <br />
into the itch of a jungle <br />
<br />
Or the vast binding <br />
of some open plain <br />
<br />
The break of me, look<br />
<br />
So that <br />
beyond communications <br />
and slender<br />
future <br />
we might talk a while <br />
<br />
Squirming through months <br />
I'll watch the columns <br />
<br />
Those whispers of genocides <br />
and wonder<br />
<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-81975672949929676242012-01-05T12:40:00.001-05:002012-01-05T12:40:11.358-05:00HorselessnessStrange that this is <br />
January <br />
<br />
The earth is <br />
So awake <br />
<br />
The colors <br />
Puncture <br />
<br />
It is as though<br />
My life never slept <br />
<br />
This year <br />
Meant waking<br />
<br />
And mostly <br />
The sky <br />
<br />
Has been <br />
Underneath me <br />
<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-39595240008521549512011-12-29T15:24:00.001-05:002011-12-30T01:11:05.460-05:00A ResolutionThis year<br />
is elderly<br />
<br />
monthly shoulders<br />
sagged in protection <br />
<br />
toward a cavernous chest <br />
heavy with days, hours<br />
or crumpled moments <br />
<br />
<br />
When it was young<br />
the year knew itself<br />
and <br />
told no secrets <br />
<br />
Now it quivers <br />
toward me,<br />
<br />
ready<br />
to take to <br />
the grave all it <br />
has born <br />
<br />
since I do not know <br />
already <br />
I would learn <br />
to tell time for you <br />
<br />
For instance, <br />
love is <br />
just a yearling <br />
on lengthy legs <br />
<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-23737748707698220512011-12-12T12:50:00.001-05:002011-12-12T12:51:09.739-05:00Body of TimeThere is the way<br />
Time turns its hide inside out<br />
<br />
minutes and guts<br />
<br />
<br />
Arc of neck, then a spilled <br />
month <br />
<br />
I am always in the sun<br />
when the taste of hours <br />
metals its way <br />
<br />
Iron and rust against my tongue<br />
<br />
Slippery now <br />
is the only balm <br />
<br />
when hewn, a hide <br />
makes soft the winter<br />
<br />
blind, I live in fleece<br />
and small ticks of motion <br />
<br />
my cost <br />
bears up the clocks <br />
turning to feeble and <br />
<br />
bone<br />
by bone<br />
<br />
centuries peel back their lids<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-26486491126790954532011-12-04T15:23:00.001-05:002011-12-04T15:25:14.222-05:00Safe Keepingyour face a pulpit <br />
words silk <br />
out of me <br />
<br />
teach me my ear <br />
teeth wrapping around it <br />
<br />
worldly, <br />
having eaten <br />
foods of other soils <br />
<br />
till me like earth <br />
<br />
my mouth softer than cottons<br />
holds your name <br />
<br />
<br />
and time, <br />
<br />
a skidding hash mark <br />
black across gentle <br />
<br />
begins to erupt <br />
from our brows <br />
<br />
<br />
I feel it is so <br />
<br />
that life enters us all <br />
in secret <br />
<br />
no grand moment, symphonic <br />
and gaping open <br />
<br />
only a pleasurable morning <br />
slung easily before <br />
<br />
the watchtower of our want<br />
<br />
faces pressed against <br />
the glass, learning the pain <br />
of color, <br />
<br />
a prologue of hours<br />
until we meet again<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-37575260795736988792011-10-12T13:15:00.000-04:002011-10-12T13:15:16.937-04:00Wall Street<br />
there are gamblings <br />
roiling <br />
the paint on houses, <br />
<br />
making the leaves peel and the <br />
eaves shake gently<br />
<br />
<br />
the hunters moon <br />
suspended over <br />
a sea of chalky <br />
<br />
middle america<br />
street lamps <br />
<br />
marks shouts <br />
like accounts <br />
being balanced <br />
on hot red throats <br />
<br />
<br />
out in the bigger cities, or <br />
the biggest<br />
the people gather their water <br />
and voices <br />
into one <br />
swollen herd<br />
pregnant with <br />
slogans<br />
<br />
mewling against <br />
meadows of money: <br />
<br />
someone stop<br />
our highest <br />
abstractions<br />
from blocking the winds<br />
that cool <br />
<br />
<i>let the wind shoot<br />
across our plains</i>!<br />
<br />
<br />
which is when <br />
the little houses on plains <br />
sigh <br />
closed throated <br />
<br />
and simply sign the next check. <br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-62081256114116935372011-10-12T00:09:00.002-04:002011-10-12T00:11:36.848-04:00a body for all seasonsIn the color of <br />
forgotten organs, <br />
<br />
deep mottled tissues, I find <br />
<br />
a world diseased in <br />
joy <br />
<br />
<br />
in only seeing the edge<br />
of things, I climb up <br />
<br />
winter through fall, <br />
planning <br />
<br />
the tracks I have yet to make <br />
<br />
in yielding snows <br />
<br />
<br />
my gray body sings <br />
even though its <br />
<br />
skin is sloughed into <br />
the sky<br />
<br />
I am a dappled season, <br />
the fragrance of rot <br />
<br />
firmly loved, utterly welcomed<br />
<br />
for its shameless ability <br />
to change<br />
<br />
My organs are hidden <br />
<br />
in laughing caverns <br />
wearing their colors as though they were crows <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-83311600133609990192011-09-26T00:11:00.000-04:002011-09-26T00:18:51.140-04:00Civilsomething smells civilized in here<br />
<br />
like thunder contained on television<br />
<br />
or a yearn, <br />
simply <br />
that <br />
<br />
<br />
what’s basic here?<br />
a breath between <br />
palms <br />
<br />
or words that make sex<br />
<br />
in the wild <br />
they <br />
find themselves blue, <br />
immersed, <br />
or only eyes <br />
<br />
<br />
ask me again <br />
<br />
in your<br />
whisper that tears up<br />
<br />
a room <br />
<br />
like strips of paper. <br />
Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-62654499279021552802011-07-21T15:55:00.000-04:002011-07-21T15:55:13.495-04:00A Ten Minute Treatise On My Facemy face does <br />
little <br />
and peacefully <br />
pushes air around<br />
<br />
it catalogues the moments <br />
<br />
a jar full of seasons<br />
cracks<br />
<br />
then busts and hangs<br />
from a dry July branch<br />
<br />
<br />
it is a smile<br />
<br />
<br />
there are only <br />
so many ways <br />
an egg can taste bitter<br />
<br />
the shell, for example<br />
<br />
my face does <br />
little to embalm <br />
a minute<br />
<br />
it only opens <br />
<br />
a yearn for your flavorLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-64108040283878218392011-07-11T23:10:00.000-04:002011-07-11T23:10:18.261-04:00How Big The Ocean, 2nd Edit.at night <br />
he oceans<br />
among tense fabrics <br />
scraps of home <br />
<br />
<br />
hook skin <br />
yet ooze so sweet <br />
<br />
<br />
they become<br />
blooms expiring<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
some home<br />
evolves, <br />
<br />
plaits of days <br />
braid lonely luster<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
plates of food <br />
gesture back<br />
<br />
colors behind them<br />
<br />
smearing, smiling <br />
missives <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
lovers knuckles <br />
cloudy violet <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He, or any man<br />
any stupid century<br />
<br />
smell permeates <br />
expanses,<br />
seas<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
their membranes <br />
<br />
bloat and fever <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
walking into <br />
three-legged memory <br />
is every day<br />
<br />
when bells clang <br />
it’s the charm of other shores<br />
<br />
<br />
I ocean <br />
<br />
in waking <br />
unbound <br />
<br />
drifting <br />
ancient as continents<br />
<br />
through morning’s resplendent rooms<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
all unmaking <br />
knows <br />
<br />
corrosion’s grope,<br />
<br />
memory <br />
is being vertical <br />
<br />
is gone times<br />
<br />
is shores of houses <br />
<br />
drifting in<br />
breath bells <br />
oceansLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-76329330259509636512011-05-23T00:02:00.002-04:002011-05-23T00:02:49.166-04:00Deep Breathstonight<br />
the air smells <br />
like everything<br />
<br />
tastes rolled <br />
between teeth<br />
music that sat in <br />
my ears <br />
<br />
the sky, <br />
<br />
which talks <br />
picture clouds<br />
arches smell <br />
<br />
through my hair <br />
<br />
I could mention <br />
borrowing those <br />
bundles of lilacs, <br />
<br />
<br />
but the rain will replace <br />
what I’ve usedLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-71971816170206103552011-04-21T23:53:00.000-04:002011-04-21T23:53:33.605-04:00Sunday, April 17th, 2011 (For Gramp)when I learned you were gone <br />
I was at the top of the hill <br />
<br />
when my shoulders began to <br />
quiver I had reached the bottom <br />
<br />
robins bounced along<br />
the ruddy grass so insistent <br />
on its verdance <br />
<br />
clumps of colors or flowers <br />
passed their lives<br />
under clamor of cloud <br />
and April gustings<br />
<br />
what a day to have <br />
your soul <br />
lifted beyond <br />
<br />
when I knew I would miss you <br />
I walked to the market <br />
to caress the vegetables, <br />
to purchase cured meats <br />
<br />
Sunday shoppers <br />
jostled sleepily against me<br />
and everywhere <br />
colors kept insisting, inserting<br />
<br />
when I finally cried for you <br />
I was home <br />
slung deep beside <br />
the warm hearth <br />
of your memory <br />
<br />
dinner on the stove<br />
made by my hands<br />
that just last week <br />
held yoursLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-46088940284188649322011-03-29T10:18:00.002-04:002011-03-29T10:18:12.242-04:00A Month Of Beastsgullet of March<br />
vessels the vacant <br />
claps of trees <br />
<br />
March, my face <br />
lifted words against<br />
<br />
March, your lamb<br />
snagged in teeth and<br />
hollow hoof, <br />
shoulders slung<br />
with punctured winter<br />
<br />
March, two beast maker<br />
fleece my feet <br />
with fever and chill, <br />
sweat pelts <br />
in your brackish afternoons<br />
<br />
March, a skin of talk <br />
words mingled <br />
amniotic, <br />
swapping genetics<br />
<br />
March, quiver me<br />
in crocus beds, <br />
epidermal fissures <br />
not pelt <br />
but column of speak<br />
<br />
March, plain robes <br />
of sky, bare back of earth<br />
unsure of inevitability <br />
talk with the wool of <br />
your eyes<br />
talk soft <br />
<br />
March, hush your mane<br />
March<br />
March <br />
March.Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-82904090887578142042011-02-22T14:32:00.003-05:002011-02-22T14:33:47.755-05:00Presswhat press is that<br />
on skin<br />
and vowels, tight <br />
hunger ?<br />
<br />
(skin before color) <br />
such as sinking <br />
motions or comets <br />
in lazy trees, <br />
when light ruptured <br />
<br />
memory, you,<br />
a lump in my spine<br />
press, <br />
press tight<br />
<br />
cramped behind teeth, eyes<br />
words <br />
coils <br />
a breath resumes<br />
words as saddles<br />
some things <br />
buckled to<br />
my tongue<br />
<br />
to know <br />
snow in lungs presses, <br />
a blue truth<br />
architects our flesh <br />
tighter<br />
<br />
time like a coffin<br />
at high speeds <br />
through joyous winds<br />
makes <br />
it over, or if only<br />
pressed<br />
tightLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-14296715625242397392011-01-26T21:19:00.000-05:002011-01-26T21:19:12.621-05:00how big the ocean when you wish to be far awayat night <br />
he oceans<br />
softly beyond horror<br />
<br />
in waking <br />
a body’s cursive skin <br />
remembers laughing<br />
<br />
then the act of morning<br />
resplendent with apology<br />
afflicted with new <br />
<br />
walking into a <br />
three-legged day,<br />
each time, bells everywhere <br />
<br />
luxury of forging memory <br />
concrete and steel collecting <br />
in the corners of cities<br />
<br />
put some blood <br />
to those bells <br />
as he oceans <br />
coming clean away <br />
<br />
never the cut that healed straight<br />
mind the life going infinite <br />
in forgetting <br />
<br />
a life rendered <br />
from fat of moments<br />
is thus shouldered by skies <br />
<br />
missives or letters<br />
plain speak in first waking, <br />
how hungry for the past <br />
<br />
still<br />
he oceans certain <br />
all moments<br />
unbound to himLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-84182405774459928292010-11-12T10:31:00.000-05:002010-11-12T10:31:28.688-05:00Midnight Stubble, Dreams of GrandfatherBorn in the quicksilver <br />
of living and deep earth <br />
born to you <br />
I come to learn <br />
you’ve been up at night <br />
visiting the dreams of <br />
your blood <br />
<br />
Once, seated as Buddha<br />
in a woolen robe <br />
you peeled an apple <br />
and cast your love <br />
so it wound tight around <br />
the bone<br />
<br />
Last night <br />
I sat on your lap, <br />
a child again<br />
clamped tight in <br />
bear-like arms, <br />
you told me the <br />
troubles of your <br />
old-man heart <br />
<br />
and now to wring out <br />
words to say <br />
your cheek was like <br />
the firmament, tangible <br />
beyond even a last touch, <br />
I am lost in blood, <br />
taking my first breaths <br />
on the day of your birth.Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-12904206298129375242010-10-22T01:59:00.002-04:002010-10-22T01:59:09.423-04:00Waiting on the Winter, Writing it outwould wish it <br />
open palm of <br />
the thought, it <br />
was blue <br />
and then tasted <br />
of mallow <br />
<br />
the thought <br />
that was the most <br />
beautiful <br />
<br />
I make the window <br />
a home, when you <br />
go by in a sketch <br />
of legs <br />
of teeth <br />
<br />
I am fetched <br />
I am underneath <br />
<br />
perfect, plain <br />
entirely too lovely<br />
in the cold-smelling <br />
wind, <br />
<br />
your face<br />
festooned with <br />
a promise.Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-70144687483341210112010-10-09T00:17:00.005-04:002010-10-09T00:19:07.442-04:00Drinks and Ponies sometimes go together.But poems, ponies, and drinks always go together....<br />
<br />
http://www.changinggears.info/2010/10/04/reinvention-recipes-manhattans-two-ways/Lucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-30223450669854184672010-10-01T14:47:00.002-04:002010-10-01T14:47:38.240-04:00Fox Hunting to the Memory of George Carnaghigrandfather, <br />
known mostly <br />
by absence <br />
<br />
I know now <br />
that I love something <br />
we could have loved <br />
together <br />
<br />
and I see you<br />
in the low, fog-saddled <br />
fields just before dawn <br />
<br />
or in the bright shouts <br />
of late fall trees <br />
<br />
often, I hear you call <br />
my heart <br />
by the voice of a hound’s <br />
long, throated cries <br />
<br />
and grandfather, <br />
when I gallop, <br />
I know you gallop tooLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8873505931769500174.post-27408044636729816952010-09-26T23:35:00.000-04:002010-09-26T23:35:42.275-04:00glacial decisionsa glacier<br />
tucked under <br />
a tongue <br />
the expanse of <br />
melt, lost <br />
out of mouth corners<br />
<br />
that was the saying,<br />
the chewed gristle of ice, <br />
rubble, and freshly formed <br />
speak<br />
<br />
that was what you were <br />
hearing, dripping <br />
out of face and heart <br />
and everywhere <br />
<br />
the melt of making up <br />
a mind <br />
there gnawed or pawed <br />
spat through that you might <br />
see that flat awful <br />
of white resolveLucy Carnaghihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17347673058732053524noreply@blogger.com0