You
and I painted
I
will never see that picture
mused
on outlined importance
forever
fresh drops of pricked sigma
certain
people lathed to live, to love,
wickedness standing
we
stopped painting tenderness
its
daily dreadful line
to
trace and retrace it
and
they say: when does the heart lie?
I
say but fifty other times.
no
artist lives only once
fair
and simple
living
like butter neatly spread
on
American white wheat bread
a
proper dowry sorrow shed
triumph
wiped their mouths
throwing
thanks for old memories
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