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ETTER 29 He will never show it in public. He swears the poet to secrecy. DAVE ETTER DOING NOTHING AT TWO IN THE MORNING A moth bounces around the bare light bulb. Nothing to farm, no fun, no road to fame. Where is that blind girl I knew in Athens? Blue flowers decay in this room of books. My fire-fevered pipe has grown a fat face. Is that you calling me to bed again? ...

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