Yeomen poets might be intimidated, the editors apparently at rest, but from what I know, none of the above, then a teeter-totter, a twix yet twain, what about the balance, a suspension of motion, a leveling of circumstance wherein Art is not history, Art is the future, a sculpture: two people, neither up nor down, eye to eye --level in suspended animation, a supra-balance this. At the exclusion of the news, better never bitter dreams, possible because you said so, as well as an identification of dilemma, last line paragraph six, the faster cure to ennui, is to get out there and play, or stay inofdoors, working with clay. Outofdoors, a bright blue/black nesting jay, his color, a summer day. White billowed cloud feathers too, nearby, a wire-perched dove, say
coo; again and again and again, the ice to water, the wine at room. The thread raveling upon the loom.

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