On South Street there was an accident:
that night the old prostrate moon mounted.
I advocated for detached variation
and suggested a new method for a dissolved re-invigoration.
Wanting so accurately, my own face had to see it,
but in the dark, then, as you slept, demanded it from you.
Beyond the walls of tonight, gazing, I saw,
downstream, your archaic origin steeped in translocation.
What if we could diagnose various remembrances?
Once we analyze the poverty of sleep.
I knew her too long:
swallowing each other like reflections.
Do I want to be remembered
bellow the black midpoint of this November?
O actual events!
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