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Oxen of the Sun 399
This humorless bath of primrose path
This thing I have taken
So is the birth of a bird to a monstrous
Surgeon patience.
I have spoken here of butterflies
Squirming of feigning
Women with tongues of choking
Philosophers who,
When discovering their immodest blood
Become bits of flesh and tinkling hearts
Become the word of departure
Become the retreat of modesty
And the signal to sally forth
With only beautiful providence for comfort
The eye knows its excuses.
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