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Barefoot Dream Can you be the melting snow and flow over me and the yellow quilt of my summer bed? In benevolent tyranny leave a place for me to kneel at the alter of our private banquet. Will you be soul-drunk on the surprised flesh of a sweet fat grape until I cannot tell which way my thoughts are facing— toward the wreckage of a faded suburban street or the last few feet of a country lane where two dragonflies embrace as they rise from the stream. Do you invite me to sleep under the skirts of night? I think I would give anything to wander off with you in my ecstasy— an ordinary insomniac with a head full of lightning, to barefoot country.
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