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86 After White-Out In this field with my head bowed ,is nothing but my shadow and the snow .Even here ,skin blistered by the sun .Off in the middle distance ,the universal city glistens under gauze ,wound filled with its galaxy of fires .Augustine was wrong :there’s no God in town .Nothing but the human wisp :God reduced to notion ,code ,the butt of some concealed weapon or better love .Here is cold established ,and my shadow long in front of me ,swinging ,dumbly rocketing this bullet-nosed self image ,black on white ,thumbprint gaited awkwardly against a soundless void ,this bright negation .There’s an I within the self ,like this almost blinding blank and stillness .Beyond observation ,it can’t itself observe .A root that cannot see .Beyond that self we may only stand and gape .Where I’m never ,not . This the mystics have named bliss ...

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