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I pray your wire will wind me
hard as an iron conch. Too often reeling—
no orbit to my planet:
My lovelorn handkerchief
has frayed. My ear-graph
only gathers sighs. I’ve given up
on what’s inside. From the wrong,
let me rise into organized zephyrs,
as beautiful as your prescription.
Cloudless afternoons will align
my brow. Soldiers ring my fields
with classes morning, noon.
On refined nights, I persevere
in the race for a design.
Yet, I bungle. On repeat
within the dingy cycle
of wash and supervise.
Until a golden sun arrives—
my forgotten treasure of agency—
whose singers belt eject,
dine on your green aches. No time
is eligible for perfecting.
Even the king forgets his line.
the splendid trope of choir.
When they sing, Aroma in her kingdom
rides the air, turning rue
into monarch capes and glorious gowns.
I am a charming student
of the rules but for my ills.
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