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Submitted on
June 8, 2012
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There are canvases whose depths
cannot be observed in a lifetime.
His room has a glide he cannot see.
The clouds sauntering across the blue,
a slow and steady turn of the world
as the tint drains from his walls,
leaves arcs of shadows in its place,
rising and falling--
the world and its elusive brushes;

so tender the application,
the ebb of tides, and tidal waves,
the people he meets.
This one is constipated.

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