The Garden of Ramanatom
I tell them about entropy—March buds ignore me— Boltzmann’s equation nobody believed, It killed him. Lawn’s growing verdant new hair— New strands shall wave at admiring chicks; the bald spot will vanish by June. (That’s not how it worked with me.) Each crocus emanating from old roots; morning glories shall hang from the trellis like a bunch of resurrecting kids— Rip van Winkle is a katydid, an old bug renewed by spring’s copy machine; even if a meadowlark devours him, his kin will look exactly like his parents, no rose would notice the difference. Like Dorian Gray, I’ve...
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