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in spite all my intuitions

one couldn’t count on fingers and toes

the things that help the poet disappear

it’s the will of a man that keeps him walking

not the shoes on his feet

or the feet in his shoes

though both are helpful

it’s just one catastrophe after another with you, isn’t it?

(one must be willing to let it all get rearranged)

poets, plights, people, and playing cards

virtue is relative to the medium

sense the same as the jar it holds

counterintuition can often be the safest practice

because you know yourself well enough

not to trust your instincts

(no, it isn’t something you said

the wind just blew a funny way)

the sky is rounder than it looks

my feet have left the floor

like i’m flying through a paper sky

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