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All of our lives is a rebus Of little wooden animals painted shy, Terrific colors, magnificent and horrible, Close together.
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Some departure from the norm Will occur as time grows more open about it.
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And we may be led, then, upward through more Powerful forms of poetry, past columns...
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"We, we children, why our lives are circumscribed, circumferential; Close, too close to the center...."
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As words go crying after themselves, leaving the dream Upended in a puddle somewhere As though "dead" were just another adjective.
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