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Four Poems after Rilke My friend, I must leave you. Do you want to see the place on a map? It's a black dot. Inside myself, if things all go as planned, it will become a point of rose in the greenest land. The fruit is heavier to bear than flowers seem to be. But that's a lover talking, not a tree. His eye-holes are empty. He utters a word of correspondence and dry silence bears the muffled sound of a fertility, a flood. Does he arouse or arrest it? Who is in control—the magician himself? A fatal fact could be conceived to finish off such callings-forth, such holdings-back. A word's an act, and no one can recover it. Sometimes the thing we name suddenly becomes . . . what? A being, almost human, that the very calling kills. 153 It was from Adam's side that Eve was drawn. But when her life is done where does she go to die? Will Adam be her tomb? When she needs that repose will there be any room in a man so closed? 154 ...

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