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Cloud River The unborn children arc rowing out to the far edge of the sky, Looking for warm beds to appear in. Flow lucky they are, dressed In their lake-colored gowns, the oars in their oily locks Taking them stroke by stroke to circumferenceand artery . . . I'd like to be with them still, pulling my weight, Blisters like small white hearts in the waxed palms of my hands. I'd like to remember my old name, and keep the watch, Waiting for something immense and unspeakableto uncover its face. 147 ...

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