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12 Lines at Midnight Sleep, in its burning garden, sets out the small plants. Behind me an animal breaks down, One ear to the moon's brass sigh. The earth ticks open like a ripe fruit. The mist, with its sleeves of bone, slides out of the reeds, Everything hushed, the emptiness everywhere. The breath inside my breath is the breath of the dream. I lick its charred heart, a piece of the same flaked sky The badger drags to his hole. The bread bleeds in the cupboard, The mildew tightens. The clocks, with their tiny hands, reach out, Inarticulate monitors of the wind. 132 ...

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