A sip of whiskey is enough to start --
So I'll acquire a taste, at least, and flip
Through Pound. It makes me start to wonder: art
Is either plagiarized or this, the tip
Of different icebergs drifting like titanic
Books of verse, unabridged for our attention.
She is middle-aged and starts to panic
While drinking tea; uneager by convention,
She'll neither climb the stairs nor fill a verse,
Nor saunter to the government official
One poem down whose hands immuteably rehearse
For this, their passion; touching artificial
Female fingers. I take another taste
And read, and pick up little in my haste.
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