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Sea algae and sea-era dust.
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Loosed postage randomly pasted as an old tableau vivant I always held me over,
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over on a wall of the old chateau—a high-test
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contusion of refugeed bees milling round for a chance to beat out
beats on the taut skin
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of my only wholly tuned conundrum. Hold me, I’ve been put on hold.
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Low in panoramic dale or hoarse from attempting to wail, those I ran me from
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was guests, centipedal nodes vastly scurrying.
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From where may I not pour me over, a wispy helmsman
nearly undone in fevered looking? Of sea algae pairs
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trying it out in a porous land. Of chain-excesses hand
in hand with the first ferocious noseeums.
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Of a season.
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A singing bridge scuffed then scuttled by a roar of cleats be a wriggling troubled bowl,
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be a bad hole.
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With a lung-full heaped full of ballast for scope,
I come in low
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over the false-eyed leafy copses
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bent in for the lack or how two who love do a deal
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from the sea of throws.