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who fumbled down in such sincere pieces. Silver pieces! The wind, the Virginia rain, touch your face now none of us at this table could, frail gleam, glass face without a back, open book, telstar. Bin Dream, West Cottage East, D-11 You or I, sweet Mag, miserable sixteen, paternal, put the kettle on, set out three white cups, and forgot, the minister edged up sideways with a certain amount of floor to cross to the silver sink the radio the fireplace and the cup, the sky inched into blue-white milk, the housemother stood up, looking at us all, not warmly, said, No one 88 door in the mountain ate, Mag put the kettle on you, your father, your married sister, or I Bin Dream #2, Interview with Stravinsky “Gossip is travel, and in these times, like travel, speeded up to the nth degree, and that’s alright, if you remember of an afternoon the immeasurable sift of geological time, the slowness of say slow snow, gossip deriving from the ancient Aramaic word, sari, or safari, meaning to travel, or, to love.” Death House It was the same kind of night, the light, the coughing, huge shoes walking, your breathing through three walls, sleeping into the last things. pilgrims 89 ...

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