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Oscar Wilde imagines two lips,
���hers������������this tiny woman
still wearing dark's cloak heavily
������about her shoulders.
The day ignites slowly, with words
stolen from ancient angels �
������the earth breathes through
the louche of new grass.
������Oscar Wilde imagines
her lips, tulips � her large sighs
for weeping willows unbuttoned.
***
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 Strange Bedfellows |
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PJ Nights  |
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