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The refugee under the window sends a poetic beard quivering the refugee’s own and poet’s. A September state it has to be. Poets jump and frisk early dawn,their beards poetically trimmed with tendency to curl at ends.

But we have our own accounts to settle this side of a window.Our days are a night’s hibiscus that pile vertically on our time below an untrammelled beard.

There is now no way of knowing how many are left in the pile.

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