It is a defeat and a bad
Treaty to go back to the warm
Nook of pain between the bones.
Again be anxious, even frantic,
Wear down the nails, cut
The feet on the knives in the road,
Learn the roots: You have seen
The wet stem and wet leaves
In the sun; and beyond the enchanted
Sleeper, stiff on the couch,
And perhaps no, for sure, impassable,
Still goes the alley
Green as the coppered flames.
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