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 4. an ideal lure Sun-treeing, a tease, I of ten loves took leave Or held vigils, moored sea-brood for pillow. Woe’s ripe swill thoroughly reeks of skunk filigree Like hapless pie-shovelers mewling as they chew And marbled, the stunned sky diminishes the beach. Turned beekeeper on the berry hives of breath And on the brink sea droves in blooming reach Their sting’s what’s in the way of hot death Wriggled out of smoke-stops ashed, upend their swarm By cattails punking from the steaming marsh While lilies moor their roots their shoreward home And rebel to the very cusp in garish Juiced light they whirl, summer’s tribe and fathom While otters writhe, heaving from the bottom. ...

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