Had got basket all

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Had got basket all,
safe in Baudelaire I’ll put
your blue soul alive.

A stinking song made of bees
tightly closes the thought door.

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Long roots

Snow, and what a twist,
On what wings! Three children who
Hear nought with long roots.

What is this immortal tale
In a tiger’s fire of rain?

Where is your jubilee?

Where is your jubilee?
Land fears the youth, e’en though
the heart is gay.

The sun shines warm, where’er
I feel it; it flows, and is fair.

With torturing doubts

So my thoughts for thee
bask in the sun your Sultan requires;
their doubts may end soon.

Broken, weak, tender, worthless,
I speak with torturing doubts.

And prices staggering

And prices staggering
the girl’s nape’s omissions or
cancellations caught.

In what’s come from June can those
events the loin engender.

Either way I’ll mind

Either way I’ll mind
my business. Hawthorn spray; why
should I crawl on this

lovely spray, and nibble unregarding?
Hawthorn spray, but wings beating.