Well, we do not know what to say today
about the way you’ve pressed your passionate intensities into our palatably softened densities: it’s gray and rainy
and a little like the nineteenth century right now,
outside, in this precluding afternoon, this cooler
intermittently precipitating gentle swoon of silver, green,
faint yellow hues: Manhattan beckons you to muse in quiet –
not infuse a riot of inexorable red into the psychic diet:
but you persist.
We resist.
.
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