In the service of our pleasure
When we were young and craved
To go back to old cosmologies
Leave the dirty city for the farm
Carry water burn wood
Plant an orchard on the edge
Of the world and stand
Under swaying fir trees again
In the dead of winter
Under a snow-laded branch
Where our deaths lay hidden
While we were curled in our nest
Of pleasure without measure
Before the pain of thinking began
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