I'm reading Alfred Corn's collection of lines: Present
... Our next-to-last
Heart-to-heart you said you couldn't taste anything
Which reminded me how ...
...-it's not a turban but a crown
You're wearing (see, I too have lost all sense of taste)
And not of white roses but of plaited thorns.
We are like penguins
during the Antarctic night
during the Antarctic night
drawn together by the warmth
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