Light Minutes

Galilean analog goes the Archimedean distance:
I see you love Aristotle, that's pretty and shuttered
In the drawer you cupped, by the board, booked 
For a seventeen year stay. Dither further,
Thus will your hairs find their gray. Under 
Rasps, vocal chaos timorously articulates 
Green velvet dreams with sharp edges
(on yellow vestiges), dripped icicly into 
a water pile one on top of the other.
Physical inscription, you merged your
fame with holly-drained wood, sun-sweated
Palms deny grip to the camera while aesthetic 
Chimeras spawn imitation shame and original grins.

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