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65 below below In the corner of the heart reserved for action, a pig is eating the poppies of hell; it doesn’t look up when I come in; it doesn’t need a confirming ideal. If there are flowers there must be dirt below hell where power has no meaning but growth comes out of it. Now a door blows open and this sound starts coming in till enough of the candles are lit— stage 7—the thought red-breasted nuthatch— of sorrow not as an event the alchemist grew hopeful hello you wonderful! as the vapor rose (then, the federal deficit . . . ) ...

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