I've been trying to restrict
The flow of images into my pages
Before they get
Blood-fatted, fit to burst,
Leaking black-red ichor
But it seems that I'm brimming with them
They form even the muscles
Of my tongue
Like the rosy dawn stretching
Her golden fingers across the land
("Tickle me gentle," the soil says),
I can't think another mind's thoughts.
I'm filled up full.
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