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The guests pulled up to the outdoor table,
reaching for it like a boat, towing it to the dock.
They were unsteady. They drank and drifted.
A man in a butcher coat carried in some tiny birds.
“Go on,” they said, and pointed to the kitchen.
Rain blew in and kept on while thorns formed
between chairs and hands and forks,
the garden frantically vining and twisting
leaves and thickets. Morning Glories clenched
the diners’ cloaks and hands. Indoors, the man
settled each of his birds upon a stand.
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