Not The Whole Poem
You could be in a desert
With shimmering second sight
Salted sea to the North and
Crusted, white sand to the East, and
Flowering fig trees to the South, and
Bowers of roses to the West.
But they only have bowers of roses in poems.
I could be in a fool's paradise
With mist covering my eyes, and
Monkey's fingers in my ears, and
My lips sewed tight with butcher's string, and
Rose thorns in my fleshy hide.
But they don't beat hides with thorns in poems.
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