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Said an aesthete: “What distillation from magic herbs
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What is a wound but a flower
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You know I always liked my walking shoes
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All above us is the touching
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What I want is the grand chaos that spins out syntax,
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The earth knows André Breton,
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Let the rain kiss you.
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Now in the blessed days of more and less
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& sometimes when we were birds
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The air is fresh, smelling of wood.