a stolen sonnet

the adaptive control of optical beam jitter

left, left sadly, but
a sack of fine-milled flour;
i gave the fewer
but they were locked though I booted my foot;

vulgarity raised to the last power?
embraceth now with tears of ruth and blood:
Let’s say, “Amen,” not make a fuss,
the earth with the doors of forever.

First the sun then the bums:
they cannot see, they cannot hear.
Now they come down the ramps! rise up from the water!
as indulgence but.

come without being there—
it’s not so hot.

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