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This is the most beautiful poem, to me. The first time I read it I was
staying in Georgia, sleeping on the floor of someone else's apartment in
the middle of summer, listening to newly discovered music. The poem
describes writing/creating/living as a writer/creator in an achingly
beautiful way. The end reminds me of the end of Kubla Kahn. The near-end
is awkward but necessary (all of the socket-plug images are particularly
awkward).
The line I will never forget, always have with me:
"Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered faithfully, not knowing
how much I loved them..."
Emily from United States