Lights from the root of May
had been with the softest rain and
flowers soaked.  Its ectasy a
coupling of vacancy and infinity
warring in my nebula of mind.
Both a meeting and departure
from Pascals wager, whom do
I take for a walk? Both in hands
the sin of gambling and that
epic cogency of infiinite Odyssey.
My Penolope is at home, whence
I wrote in rot and disease, an after-
life of before ordinance.  Chaos,
my love, I seek my mind to bend
to you, old truth, forgotten realms,
wed me with Dickenson’s party,
allow me to wither and wander,
home find, and marriage decree.


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