to things that had become oblique
a feeling of objectivity to all
grown somehow weak
which a hapless winter
might be tempted now to tweak
to the extreme of bitter weather
what cold intelligence can achieve
when it wears its icicles on its sleeve
while summer’s knowledge shivers
to the bone: it’s only love
if you get nothing back
yet what’s to get
if this one thing you lack
nothing I bet
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