Vainglorious man, who mistook grace for triumph, and thought to be the sun itself, until your hands were full of nonsense. The words move to their place in a sentence not this one leaving landscape to call your name, a wheel in your hand to remember that other as it sinks into the earth, is interred among the vegetables, dragon waiting for some hapless farmer, waiting in your ice-box to unearth her. Look very carefully.
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