These appetites: Shapes,
Run fingers
through dimension;
And Rimbaud’s regret?
To sprawl oneself bare
On dynamic growth, youth did not have
Depth,
Age grows too brittle and arthritic
There are worse things than inexperience!
The measure is what one has not –yet what
Was charming of African earth?
-Consistency in the predator’s gaze
-A delicate (simple) joy bending to the sun
Libertineflesh sheathed its poet’s death;
With no remorse in the seasons’ passage
This dead poet’s footnotes trailed
To find art living as concubine
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