But why Lie, except in Poetry’s charred category?

But Charm’s their trade. I lie, but when it hurts to lie ( See a bee )

  I tell truths in their Species: what Shove its Hard, stinging knowledge, raw,

 down my throat, like sex do, or don’t, or how doubt do. ( A bee considers ,

among roses , which rose .) Better I make this Baseborn walk meet my minds,

 transient Amateurs, if I can remember the line . . . an Emily

Dickinson poem ? . . . the line: but can recall her Staggered gait instead,

What goes like the Sunday Organ: that Honest, afferent & mad. ( Among roses .)

Can detect her Capital letters slam Accent, for Emphasis, & play

 Dynamic keys, since no italics can script

in cursive—These are blueprints for me, something like what I hope

 I really am. Or seem

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