X. Trappings
Dust it always have to please and raining, yes, even
when it isn't, could it not quite be as it should?
Quite wide wake and each mosquito its own epistle.
The imps are fazed by stasis. They go through
like looking glass. How big is sleep?
Orchid or straw. Bolero. Turn a door
back on you. Time blankets without being
a security. I certainly hope slow.
Doubtless a doubleness.
That art ought evoke or choke,
rhyme or sublime. A fool aloof.
The cult of cultivation -- a society of green thumbs.
Fact -- simile.
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