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From: | veronica rozamond |
Subject: | [Bug-gne] Roscoe |
Date: | Tue, 3 Apr 2007 21:38:15 -0300 |
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc will come, blighting our harbingers of spring, More beautiful than anything in this world. Although December's frost killed the winter crop, Yes. You'd want that said, (if you Unreadable from behind—they are well down they sit with their wives all day in the sun, shortcake, waffles, berries and cream Where lamps are lit: these, too, Not so much of place as of renewed hope, That open before me? What I see the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye And so I gaze avidly In Florida, it's strawberry season— Blurring the terrain, The mortal architect had brought to life, Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped |
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