Pens express, squeeze out lines and create with tinges of ink
while I say all through cringing the streets with my eyes
filled with yes - this lit understanding I see on pages from Norway
differently burns out my nose. By pressing I express and depress
the destruction of structure that calls for instructing constriction.
I get what reading is for but writing is to forget the winter's snows
I didn't recognize sitting in my rain barrels, wet as Easter. It's time
to list what ails and drop it in a brook, since wings are not ours to give.
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