The Whole Soul
T Tom Billsborough
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The whole soul epitomized
When slowly we breathe it out
In several smoke rings
Vanishing in other rings.
It attests to some cigar
Burning skilfully provided
The ash is separate
From its bright kiss of fire.
So the choir of our romances
Flies to the lips.
Exclude from, if you start,
The real because it is base.
A meaning too precise
Erases your discrete literature.
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