Conceived in reverse, there's my grave.
Perhaps Petrarca's handsome plan's best junked
behind the wildlife's handles. So, to deal
in, spit the terms at speed: ballistic dust
I guess is fit for final publication
not long after
the horny toads. He bade 'em all farewell,
self-love bested by her--his one hot ride
bent into a twisted form, then
ended with a couplet
and deconstructed. Maybe it's enough.
I place the socks in sneakers--I don't mean
to challenge my established hamper, sure
the tacit shantih chorus will adjourn.
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