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Poetry is not made of words.
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All roads lead to the kitchen.
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At most he thinks or twitters softly, “Safe!
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The number / of hours
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I read a book written by a dove. Great! I slept
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look / the other way,
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Every color has been arranged
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I pay out now, behind, like rope, these random days
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not aware yet of what I will become
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I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
