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In truth each day is a universe in which
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Her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late
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One day, chasing my tail here and there,
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its own blinding light that we wait for in a poem,
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the universe
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Till her calm grey eye
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Skin feathered over bone
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to stand each is up against emptiness
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You see how it works. In this my garden aspires
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Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles