the Aquanaut
Sure, we want nice even tans
to sail a frolic world
but why is there no post-ironic
air in here, friend?
There are you again
if I knew more than I would
where once I was a pilgrim
geraniums grow in the garden
So you hear a sound so sweet
distant as a soapstone mantle
a fragrant illustrious scene
fresh green shoots cool water
A postmodern world, mountain buddy
Why is the air shut off?
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