i'm eating pestle/mortar pills
and feeling extra-sort-of-still,
i mean an extro-vaunted chill,
i made that up but i'm made of stuff
that nature loves so the crisis' a-verted.
quiet & nervous with eyes on the nerdish
wife i would service. to be?
unsure, i'm quizzing my conscience,
malleable, the vision just can't set.
i think she must be smart, yes.
sitting, supple, cross-legged
in an awkward way,
sifting through Aurora Leigh, frowning.
i ought to say something. about Browning?
like, dapple-dawn-drawn to her pouting.
but that was Hopkins? yea. nvm, that was not him.
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