Seismology is an art reserved for anyone
Little crytals beneath the earth contain starlight
I weep for stars too small to take flight
A bird with no wings is like a summer ending
Various lands are embarassed by telephones
And no one understands scientific logic anymore
An ounce of love is unstable at room temperature
A piano is a leaf whose keys lightly tremble
Outside a window
A wasp is a woman who undresses
In the bare moonlight
A continent is subdivided by the freedom to roam
And eyelashes
After the rain a subterranean world comes to life
After the rain Chicago sings and the universe
is so undead
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