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They are lovely, your orange slices
and peignoirs, and especially that green
cockatoo, but why, poet, limit the mind
of God to a heaven of immutable fruit?
Perhaps belief must be wooed, much as anything
we hunger for.

Granted, pursuit is a young man’s game,
but in their eagerness, boys grab
too rashly at the inviolate: so faithful,
those green boys to their fruitful
strivings, while steadfast lovers
know faith can never be
plucked or shaken from the tree.
Faithless to grandiose pursuits, they
abide in quiet passionate persuasion.

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