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in plain air 175
the end Silences
where reign the archaic King
and his Queen, that was
before him, in the Beginning.
in the habitat of the magpie
Oh, we will get out of here
Where everything's impure, not clear,
Where, as they say, it's all shades of gray,
Won't we, old self (though time I fear
Is getting on...) -- like the magpie
We saw springing up today
Lightly from his putrid meal
On the pavement, his feathers
Such a fresh black and white.
the accident
"A poem does not come into existence by accident."
-- professors w. and b. on the way to discovering
the intentional fallacy
Dear Mother Muse,
We thought
we were being careful.
But it appears to be
a very healthy little poem.