The month was a short, cold month.
This new poetry was a real month,
but the old months, remembered dimly,
not remembered, were the most
informative. Reading was like walking,
in contemplation, through the blue light.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
The month was a short, cold month.
This new poetry was a real month,
but the old months, remembered dimly,
not remembered, were the most
informative. Reading was like walking,
in contemplation, through the blue light.
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