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101 dusk When​dusk​and​I​are​not​the​claims​of​dusk, the​hands​of​dusk,​the​chains,​the​open​cuts, the​depth​of​dusk,​I​will​not​call​them​cuts. Something​flies​by​in​speckles,​in​the​dusk. I’ll​call​it​land​in​waters​that​are​light and​follow​it,​to​drown​instead​in​flesh, as​if​I​had​an​enemy​in​flesh, since​I​will​have​no​enemy​in​light. Soon​with​the​darkness​all​the​arrows,​charge their​hands,​will​hold​me,​and​then​open​flowers touch​with​their​night-​ edged​blossoms​other​flowers, and​dusk,​now​after​me,​with​arrows​charge its​loads​of​islands​down​from​that​high​cave-​ like​walls-​ from-​ dripping​night,​and​I​am​laved. ...

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