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Try to praise the mutilated world.
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That pale softness. What would more mean?
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It wants to open itself,
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Writing is what the dreams eat.
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And this: that one opens itself, like a lid
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No matter how close two sensations, passing from one to another pink is the slice
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In your litany of glass boxes
-
Ferns of language pressed into the soft wax cylinders of
-
you are still summer
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It is stranger than all strangenesses,
