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is in flight. It heads out among the stars that are dead, dying or afire. The Seasons The seasons doubt themselves and give way to one another. The day is doubtful of itself, as is the night; they come, look around, slowly depart. The sun will never be the same. People give birth to people, flourish and then die and the sun is a flame of doubt warming to our bodies. With the Sun's Fire Are you a horror to yourself? Do you have eyes peering at you from within at the back of your skull as you manage to stay calm, knowing you are being watched by a stranger? Be well, I am seated beside you, planning a day's work. We are contending with the stuff of stones and stars, with water, air, with dirt, with food and with the sun's fire. Examine me, I am continuous Examine me, I am continuous from my first memory and have no memory of birth. Therefore was I never born and always have been? Astold 700 | Poems of the 1970s ...

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