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Barbara, [1] It’s stupid to spend my summer drinking beer and knitting wool, warped humidity held, we’re outside and my lemon yellow friend climbs the pergola, her fingers tendril trellis. Wisteria, too, its roots are grounded, the art critic says of allover painting (lattice, nets, rows), in vernacular practices, previously feminized domesticity, non-sexist. [2]…
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