This is seven, the
much too number,
inviolate pretend
because prime
This is Sentence
of math not
worship, sun
clock, forecast
radiance
this season of
William Yeats
belongs to
turnstile furniture
special aptitude
unclogs crusades
while is neat
and torn
language is arith
metic verified
by surgical unction
and tropes, flags,
immodest shit
sour lodges of
valuation cre
ate a logical
crackpot sportive
the
welcome is
this this
a poem
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