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a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask
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It mandates while we wake or sleep, and asks
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Of some enchanted land we know not where,
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the true nature of poetry. The drive
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the late sun
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no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer
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the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
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The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
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Swallow the hook of happiness and mirth,
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are their flimsy hands just pointing, open,