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I Mock the Weather I mock the weather. I stick it with a series of pins. I don't see the undersides of clouds Up here, in the white height of my high rise; No bloated bellies of moisture But their wiry backs instead, Their hard and hairy cilia Reaching up to Heaven Clamouring for guidance And finding nothing But the rough winds of Sartrean scarcity To take the place of belief in originality, And feel themselves a part of The universal plan. (In their waning solitude I give them Latin names To keep them amused.) |
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