Elements of truth clash in my recitation of the yellow sun done in the grand manner when I was alone. The mirrors shake under the fluorescent lights, blessing thunder-lit music that touches the structure. Those at the back of the universe are listening carefully. Behind the elms the well-masoned wall comforts the streets with its quiet music. That the universe is a poetry is agreeable and wild, as wild as thunder and birches and thoughts of morning. Glistening with victory, the glass panics (at great cost). One person is weary, remembering the unconquered and half-asleep newspaper headlines.

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