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For each ecstatic instant
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The heart
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And when we hear the poem
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First / there was some other order of things
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I have emotions
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It turns out every sun
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It is embarrassing to be alive.
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I’ve got a bone / to pick with whoever is in charge. All year,
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By day I have circled like the sun,
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Maybe, he thinks, it is like the Nō: whenever
