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And there are islands,
fixed
and emblematic,
we could go to,
or relate;
make a story
in order
to tell.
A butterfly
on the wheel,
or under and ivied
we're holding on to
that which

wings out into the
distances and look up
all the sad young
men muted and
tone-deaf like
it's going out of style,
when it's all just concepts;
concrete and woodland
and abstract modern art
sculpting ourselves
and what is lost
is what we have left,
to trade, or give,
anything to relate.