The Pilgrimage, Book II: Part 16 / Phillip Neal Tippin
Eat of the garden varieties
From their season of ecstasy
Infants of eternity
Born in death quite young,
Maybe some
Have picked up a word or two
For a new tongue
When its spokes are unsprung.
Writing is what I’d say
With its makeup on.
Meaning slurred into the meter,
Convinced by the hook that
Compromise for a diminished
Seventh is absolute, requisite.
The smell of the world
Making sense.
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