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When the still sea conspires an armor And her sullen and aborted Currents breed tiny monsters, True sailing is dead. Awkward instant And the last animal is jettisoned, Legs furiously pumping Their still green gallop, And heads bob up Poise Delicate Pause Consent In mute nostril agony Carefully refined And sealed over. -- Jim Morrison (The Doors) |
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Horse Latitudes |
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READING / LITERATURE LITERATURE ON LINE |