Endless sonnets far as the eye can see.
Rows and rows of shelving in a mind
that is the world, populated by trees
and blue jays singing songs. The iris grows
in the low spot, the earth humbly revolves
about a hearth of Sun. I have supposed
the orators of the Maghreb saw this,
oriented themselves so that they
could whirl ghazal infinitely. The hills
in Degas' watercolor are an art
resembling a little Petrarch song.
When I hold my beloved, I have grasped
the foam of a voluptuous ocean,
the scent of a blue iris in bloom.
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