If poetry is allegory, then the master lures with opioid orchids, sequestered in the great depths of western range, the master cultures the flowers to omnipotence – the hatchlings suckling on nipped buds. Mature, they scour the seven directions of the continent: the master’s guild summoning their allegiance – saddled fireeaters rushing porpoises in the ... Read more
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07:00 - 18:0019:00 - 22:00