If I have to, I can picture everything.
My mind's eye rakes the world
with a scorched-earth gaze,
and I don't really mind
what I don't see. But
you might be surprised
how little I praise,
or am phased. Or
is this just a phase,
all along? Will I wake
this afternoon as a butterfly?
I can picture that fine.
I'm a hypothete
with a taste
for immersion
as strong as wine.
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