What do worlds with no winter do,
Not burned pure by visions of light,
No clean slaughter-knife of cold
Carving away concupiscence?
What do worlds with no winter do,
No crystal branches, fairy-white,
No silky folds in the landgown,
No fallen stars flashing underfoot?
What do worlds do, always juicy
Brown and wet, lascivious green,
Palm-treed and sandy, oiled tanned,
Where every breath slips painless home?
They become California.
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