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AT T H E S N O W L I N E I N S U M M E R There appeared again a little thinking cloud—; it was trying to figure out how to hover. Just to the right of the peaks, some fire striations in the granite. Just to the right of the mind, pines pushed up from below . . . scrrrrrip! A million years pass. Letharia volpina drops from the ponderosa. The gods hold back, deprived of terror. —What is it now, Mrs.? —Not sure what you mean by now. —You are caught again in the nameless hour till all of life seems wrapped in it That eagle wears its shadow eagle on the ground, coasts in the thermals, barely flaps over the petro-fabric . . . Bolds, givens. Toxic hours & mute money— & lately you hath gotten bossy at thy demanding job. In summer snow, pinched nevering bulbs push up like Moscow churches. Some spikes of cold might heal your hurry. Effort of vision reversal—but here you are, still upright at the edge of sound . . . 5 6 ...

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