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I would like to write a poem about the
world that has in it nothing fancy.
But it seems impossible.
Whatever the subject, the morning sun
The tulip feels the heat and flaps its
and becomes a star.
The ants bore into the peony bud and
there is the dark
pinprick well of sweetness.
As for the stones on the beach, forget
Each one could be set in gold.
So I tried with my eyes shut, but of
course the birds
And the aspen trees were shaking the
out of their leaves.
And that was followed by, guess what,
a momentous and