The Anticlear makes free
with an opacity delightful
to itself, while from
the other side, they
see right through,
and cannot tell.
The Anticlear turns words
against their natural sense,
and calls them names. Arise,
a rose, and smell as sweet
as lushest bull-mown grass
remains.
The Anticlear has many points,
just none of them line up
or match. Hand flies to quiver,
thence to bow: but what's drawn
back is balderdash.
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