That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingThat this mud draws on the stone.Close at the end of distance the two ChoseThat desire has ever built, have approachedShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeperAnd I would likethere's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....Is the moon to growI draw near to one of them, the lowest,Gray the cloud-like oaksOh, I know. The snow. The effective snowSeen. What you know is only manifestDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsThe form sought for centuries byNever does any motion, sound, or lightIX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionWould their world not remain comfortablyAgain awaken from your being gone to findOr by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
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