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   b u t t e r f l y,    e a t    n o    p o r k

--- R O N A L D   D O N N

You know how I feel about caddy corners.
The room running far out of things to mean,
especially on Saturday.  No rest,
no stoplights, no appreciable amount of labor
will move the couch into place.
You best of all understand how we talk here
to discuss there.  You understand what
it is to be issued a warning: I assure you.

If we were walking and you lifted an ear to the calm, calm sea, imperative and imperial. The natural dissent of standing seaside. Choppy waves. Sea shells happening differently, zoology happening differently. Too bad dead is happening differently, you might say, you would definitely say. With an ear down to the mouth of a ruby, perhaps, patiently waiting in the zone of allegory,

keeping an eye open for the symbol and where it parked its car, things you and I may have had happen. Let us, in that case, go. The summary is waking up as though weeping could put me in the mood, imperative and awful, because I wish to speak with the ease of our usual anonymous love songs. I wish the longitude of our talk were the same as the latitude, to put it allegorically. If, of course, only

it were up to me to advise the butterfly: eat no pork. Color in the lines. You know how it feels, naturally, to give tiny advise: there's no star for the Landing of Normandy, but a formula: Butterfly Eat No Pork. Armed to the teeth with such a theory, my love, my dear Penelope, My Dear Maria, we may win out over the presumptuous torture

of dripping water faucets, or obsessing about the cubist death song in the ice box, or your referential mania which turns everything into a love song, or getting acquainted with a coloring book of stained glass in the four square skeleton of Paradise.

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