As if the thing you learn weren’t loud enough
for her; she levitates the shaking pencil, pen—
Better to suffer than to serve: cold turn
to right, dear Alice, Albert with the light bright hair.
You run, but letters once were sweet. Not now.
Pretensions hear you talk. Abigail, my Allen, dear,
your rule was blue, a jay. No paths cross twice,
or seem the same the times they do: Oh, Anne!
as if things we learn weren’t loud enough.
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