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The Unbeginning —or, maybe you could just give up on beginnings. After all, this notion that things start and end somewhere has caused you so much trouble! Look at the wild radish in the fields out there. Isn’t it always row and row of pastel pinkyellow -blue like some bargain print of itself, in new pillowcases, on sale; and you stumble through it thinking art must come from the book of splendor or the book of longing until the rhythms curve and the previous music hasn’t ended yet: the whir the blackbirds make, as they land, sound like velcro, like a child undoing velcro from the winter jacket (from the hood of a winter jacket) 93 ...

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