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T O S T E M T H E T I M E W E S P E N T —their being time at present—blue:) leslie Scalapino The ancestors don’t crowd us. They become a kind wind to let us pass through. Stems of avena. . . stripe-stripe, behind their mother, stripestripestripe, baby skunks have entered the spicy ground like a ribbon falling from a girl who’s learning to read. Harbor seals are molting now. A few. A woman stays visible in stems of her words— Stems from the Triassic ooze from disaster & now nothing can stem the crisis (from stemma, to stammer. Stand & stammer. . .) Oyster, embrace your inner Halliburton. From a hill, in a dream of time I i i i brought some extra kindling to the fire. . . like i in every font, we intend to make some changes; we hope to learn to breathe before we die. The grain spirits have abandoned the painting & spread wild flax to the field. ield. iel. e. Please don’t rise before i rise; acetylcholine brings its arrows to the spine & causes my arms to move. 2 5 ...

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