my darling since

you and

i are thoroughly haunted by

what neither is any

echo of dream nor

any flowering of any

echo (but the echo

of the flower of

Dreaming) somewhere behind us

always trying (or sometimes trying under

us) to is it

find somehow (but O gracefully) a

we, entirely whose least

breathing may surprise

ourselves

—let’s then

despise what is not courage my

darling (for only Nobody knows

where truth grows why

birds fly and

especially who the moon is.

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