In rain barrels
Bathe his ideas
But the things
he has
In rosemary shrub
leave
to forget
the lyrical I
A little tomato juice
On his dusty lamp
His senses
make you
The not
That scribe
Open his
epiphany
Porous You great soul
His mouth odor
Its in words
ducted
inklings
give him
no access
To yours
Mysterious spaces
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