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The Welsh poet The Welsh poet said of his mother who “left the world” last week “She was never dead in or out of it.” He shows me a beautiful Indian bird red with yellow dots on it: Happiness. Beauty. Art. —That bird seems to like you. —Yes, that bird knows there’s not much time. The mother has a gold body now. Radio: Poetry Reading, NPR I heard your voice on the radio thirty years dead and got across the kitchen to get next to you breath and breath two horses But it wasn’t you back then I was liquid to, it was my life: I wanted to be you. Amount to something. Be the other the ready stone —prayer-rag tied to a wire fence, a branch . . . the cradle of the real life 255 ...

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