This copper maiden, the mother of verdigris In whose segments we generally believe Dotes on the bay's increase of degrees To ease the gaps wider and retrieve Warmth in air as though to gently burst Apart for one whole afternoon, immersed In green sea spray, in gray dis-ease Learning to adapt to breath, lips curled To fear, that bitter sulphur in the quays: Oh, Christ the sadness: pity for the world.
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