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Jake

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  • annie lana
    Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay, —Now that you notice it—have just moved past The
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 31, 1987
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      Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
      Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
      �Now that you notice it�have just moved past
      The edge of that other square cut from the right
      Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
      M�re and P�re Chose are walking away from the
      In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
      The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
      Are gliding toward me on the ice into
      to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
      Along the walls are only empty niches,
      Close at the end of distance the two Chose
      Late February, and the air's so balmy
      Merely a mockery of spring
      That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
      Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
      will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
      Only a whiter absence to my mind,
      to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
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