I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.
A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love
Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
Walk with the dead For fear of death.
Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind.
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.
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