The lindens are lining the promenade

how we wish we were seventeen again

their branches arching ever skyward 

framing Vincent's starry manifold

swallowing every thought and sound

each caveat, each dolce far niente

now fading and then pulsing with the

rising and ebbing of rhythmic tides 

how serious this business of life is;

our limbs intertwine as we scramble

shaking ...

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