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(spam poem by Edward Desautels)

prisoners at any expense
and nothing on earth to be done
she was the cause of our belonging

our town cried the bitterest stream
leaned back in its chair
and saw that I was looking

looking at its cleanliness and order, still
the placid face across the stream
the tumbled broken rocks that welcomed me, as usual

blotting them out, I took her something
found intention interposed between reliance and respectability
counted all the fingers of her left hand

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