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M I S T S F R O M P E O P L E A S T H E Y P A S S at the Port of Oakland One form cannot predict the unknown. In the crowd, when the outline of another starts to be clear, you think he is steadier than the first world you were shown & you are drawn to him as if through the apparatus of a dream that will not be recalled. Electrons are fearful of his form, each spinning oddity takes time, & the human senses can’t rush it along. Trash-eating gulls outlast predatory loans & sparks in the eyes of the murrelets rush to the sea. The revolution is not far away. It is in your heart. The violent ones grow old; the tired ones keep saying the system, the system, the system unravels when we walk along. In the left glow, the glow left by companions, here comes another walking through mist & you recognize the leader is not him. Friends said they’d wait for you so they waited 3 gates from the end. The plan had no boundaries did it, blank signs leaving mind for the wind— 8 0 ...

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