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something else for your poetry, no?


The pleasant day resists parsing, but tragedy too discloses, deleting

provocation dressed in a paradox of renaissance drag. Through silence

the utopia cries aloud: remove all vegetation to achieve historical authenticity.

This is the great contradiction of joy. It moves by exception, for which


there are no models, save pottery fragments in plexiglass suspended by pins.

What image merits an afternoon in which the colonel’s idleness expands

the idea of an audience only to be deflated by ill-timed applause?     










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