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61 Song How sleepy the melody of an afternoon, how slave-driven those who dart in and out of it on speeded-up film, till November’s out the door singing it’s below zero inside the butcher’s freezer. I turn to memory to eviscerate the pasture: an erasure with me beside it, beside the point, lost in the hay grass. Perhaps you’ve never been a shambles. Then I envy you: you’ve never been the one who roams the halls asking if it’s almost over, the night, and how fatal is it? Maybe the surfaces don’t make you flinch, the dents and catalysts: then you can report the facts as if they were facts. You can look the other way, the luster of dew can’t disperse you with its intricacies and associations. Then you’re not here with me inside a moment that means nothing in and of itself, hugging the ground, the slimy little worm cut into segments.You’ve already turned the other cheek to the infinite softness of skin, the garbled birdsong that sends out its thrush-like message. ...

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