.
The
body’s adaptation to abrupt
enlightenment
can look bizarre
to the
untutored eye.
.
.
Burt
got re-begat by his epiphany
into a
random branchiness.
Nobody
knows why.
.
.
Truth
is beauty, Keats declaims
from
his poetic pulpit. Burt says
bullshit.
“Ruth’s a beauty,
.
maybe”
(Ruth’s his erstwhile girl
who will
not love him as a tree),
“but
Truth screwed me.”
.
.
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