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If I were the moon I would shrink into a sand grain
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ten thousand murex shells to make
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but falling into a liquid mirror
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So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —
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All weeds. I see it from the train, citybound, how the yuccas and chicory
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Let us be unashamed of soul,
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that runs along the lines, bright
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and when the sun is out, we disappear.
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pestling the unalterable
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ghosts leave: retinal