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Levin in Georgia Here you are, Levin in this Southern gorgon city feeling the raw pitch of a dry-eyed morning floating on the symmetry of a child's hopscotch sidewalk. No status for Leo Frank yet you are whispering nervously, carrying your language with the wonder of childhood by Georgian mansions with licorice trim early echoes of half-speech wanting to get three stanzas to greet a mellifluous formality. Here your ticklish life zigzags with a wrinkled tourist map near the marsh lilac garden hoping for a troubadour muse to bathe some music in the voice over the waiting room in a pink hotel lobby mirror - such a pathetic fallacy is your wish without a destination.
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