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The voice


Its yellow/brown tones and its
vibration denote all the particular

fruit that the voice carries in its
wooden barrow. My voice

is a tired, old emissary dressed in worn
and elaborate robes and sent out to trundle

by a small boy, a cocky prince
(though he has but the toy parts of a child,

not yet soused in tangled, romping spells).
The ground undulates beneath his

wooden wheel. The trees, they serve up
green on every platter. The inveigling

emissary is a cuckold whose wife
the royal squirt pleases enormously while

the emissary is out earning a crust and
smoothing out differences.