The soul of purpose is there...but it drops.
The soul of infinite floating birds and things is there...
But it drops.
Every book's dust jacket you look in, every watercolor of a bird you look at--
They're unified by their constancy.
It is a word for a thing.
And the hammock of a shoulder carried it as a baby.
And the brow consternated to bear it.
And I remember you when your twin and sugar slept.
And the soul of purpose is there.
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