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Sint

de Benoît Pioulard

If they're always reticent to believe
There is gasoline on the crest of the hill
What will straining lines of five years deign to leave
As the tissues are broken down & the flame burns the will

Writ in edges, made amends it hums a single note to me
Burrs on clothing & a heat stroke of desiring still
Clear the brush & flora to ascend to plant an apple tree
& what the deer don't get, the rabbits surely will

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