A stick in the sky,
shy, I try to pry.
It stays, firm,
with a tussle in the leaves
nothing perceptible falls.
Hey, smalls!
no one would ever call me.
my american thighs
squish wide on the seat,
full flat.
Legs, double the
hand-drawn sticks
I try to draw.
Thicken here, share there,
look at that line
so static,
for now.
Connective Cube 
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