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Alone with our madness and favorite flower
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Good grief, gods do what they like.
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“It must be very beautiful, the sunset,
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I see private dreams,
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How to unpin this particular
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How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
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Bics coaxed to climax by God’s thwapping bass,
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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