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54 Again, Today The sky holds still perfect for painters breathless, fresh, composed— As if nothing ever happens or has happened or will. God, peel this sky back, crack open the globe, float out its yolk. Do what you are good at, what we must want. We who strain at every peace, resist what’s fair and fresh. No wonder the sky holds its breath. God, do what you are good at, what you do best, while we crack open the globe, float out its tarry yolk. ...

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