this desert is worse than the others: yelow harlot, or during the brightest points of the afternoon a reminder of the infinite she last felt at twenty-two, or like a mousecarcass and the dwelling people with theirvulture eyes: here is the truth of out-here America, puremoral rot. and yet I would like to take out… Continue reading poem: comet
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 