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is an aperture’s quick snap—
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as near to nothing as can be
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where knowing
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I will / never know a single thing anyone feels,
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Well I paid fifteen cents
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I’m goin’ down to Tennessee
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I sing the beauty of bodily touch
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about the size of a honeybee. We stared at
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I like my poems. They’re
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Pale moth, that from the moon doth fly,