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46 Boy from Rum a lad from rum Is lost in a garden of creatures Who have no tongue. They make music brushing wings, Fleshly things that pour down the back, all muscle and grit. He stumbles through a mess of shrubs, Comes upon a girl seated in a pavilion. Her face is cut in gold. Under her flows a channel of milk. my son comes with singing words From the duc d’Orléans who lived In the same time as the boy from rum (Struck dumb in a garden painted For a muslim emperor, king of kings). my son who is tall and lean like The lad from rum, dressed though In jeans and black wool jacket, Plucks off his cap and sings Quand je fus pris au pavillon, Je me brûlay à la chandelle, ainsi que fait le papillon. He sips warm milk, nibbles at bruised Cookies I have made for him. restless then, he plucks up the phone, and sings. 47 does she hear, an old woman, his mother’s mother Stooped at the edge of a veranda Where monsoon mists pour? It’s night time there. Someone sets a candle at her side. no words only music: This is my whole dream. dull witted moths spill into flame. ...

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