The terrace was made of wire: iron clad railings on once
too soft a pad to stand upon, watch. Beneath the eyes it is all
green with no envy but with a hundred bees jumping from blossom
to another, there would be a donkey heard braying
there would be a whiff of foul-smelling water, rank
there would be a contentment that hangs long enough in the air
to remind us to look above us, no matter how high we are sitting.
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