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58 The Way the World Goes On The sun claws the river all day as if to keep it swelling as we sleep, evening vines relax, giving up heat they’ve stored since noon, the breeze changes, painted grass points the way it escaped, and the moon watches expressionless waters gurgle down our streets as if searching for a flood; while each thing that is one thing continues its work on becoming another, like leaves toward black compost under trees, a wick stutters out in the pool of wax that was its candle and no one sees the end of radiance or the curtain over the window on the gray alley giving up its borrowed light. ...

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