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,( J\c]$GfikiX`kXj8lifiX Lunging toward a small music in the dark, that rare glint of recognition, your voice all but extinct. I part the night’s curtain each day, hoist with my chariot, sunrise through the just-visible light. A varnished sheen of dew broadcast everywhere. It slicks the crickets who babble in the still-dark thatch, each wet bead cloud-gazing and glossy as eyes stacked in the monger’s window, slicks each cloud, each squat package sailing out through the heavens like a regatta of bulbous vessels, slicks each vessel, each rigged sail’s white and ambling hull with the slick wake of weeping behind such mortal love. ...

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