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Quarrel

 Let us quarrel for these reasons: 
You detest the salt which seasons 
My speech .
.
.
and all my lights go out In the cold poison of your doubt.
I love Shelley .
.
.
you love Keats Something parts and something meets.
I love salads .
.
.
you love chops; Something goes and something stops.
Something hides its face and cries; Something shivers; something dies.
I love blue ribbons brought from fairs; You love sitting splitting hairs.
I love truth, and so do you .
.
.
Tell me, is it truly true?

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