Not My Poem

Look what the spam brought in!:

Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Bronze the sky, with no
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Will sound, then the Lord’s face will luminesce
Your gloved hands covering your lips’ good-bye
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
In Florida, it’s strawberry season-
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
I know,
Of observation lying on the ground
Unreadable from behind-they are well down
That images of roads, whether composed
For any part of them we can make out
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
This third day of our January thaw,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe

The most poetic rubbish I’ve ever read.

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