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by Ann Townsend
Despair needles you with its whisper, it is agnostic, it believes in irony1, like a fly‘s buzz it is perceptions, a busy blood clot2 that says alive, alive. I‘m not the stopped motion, the straight line out. Your garlands are "convivial3, festival, sacrificial, nuptual, honorary, funebrial." That spring, when we strolled in the rain, you bent4 to the stone wall‘s alyssum— bloom, stem, and root, you tore a handful free. 点击收听单词发音
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