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G R A M M A R O F T H I S L I F E AT N O O N The immortals wait in the fields. & the newt under the laurel (a dragon whose three heads argued with themselves—), the push thistles, Celastrina echo butterfly with automatic semi-colons on its wings—(‘twill hide under the cloroxcloud —& that’s that! some punctuation is just too sensitive to be outside—) Stubby white teeth on that baby vole: smile on its face—screeep! like gnostic Jesus, its comma-comma-comma claws. Clause—verbless mosquito-egg daylight . . . Worker, dreamer: your soul has slept with countesses so long his hands still smell like money! He says to himself: my lord the sun has thrown his sexual shadow upon me . . . (oops! Where did it go?) —It’s just fallen behind something. (What has?) —Whatever you lost. 6 ...

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