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The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow
That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid
 
Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving
 
The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it
 
As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:
 
What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.
 
Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us—what?—some flowers soon?
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