Awake, my fair, my love, awake,
So that I may gaze upon you!
And if one is eager to kiss your lips,
In your dreams this do you see,
Lo, then I myself of your dream
The interpreter will be.
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I wrote some of the worst poetry west from the Mississippi River, but I wrote. And I finally sometimes got it right.
by Rebecca LindenbergThe mask that burns like a violin, the mask
that sings only dead languages, that loves
the destruction of being put on. The mask
that sighs like a woman even though