Weren’t there poets before there were words,
Cause didn’t they need love in the boreal eras of moose and rime-
My brothers, the grandfathers of her eyes of sad prehistory;
When her shoulders are naked opal on the stereoscopic hills:
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poetry sunken deep...driven away to unreachable highs...fleeing to the moon where it requires no expressions...well, bob your imaginations fly high... your devotion to poetry mountain high...