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28 Orpheus You, below the avalanche, under the world: Meretricious? I buried you so I’ll take it. Never worse off was a man. Unfurled in you, I could talk rivers out of their way— but what the gods predict, we execute. Without guile I looked, pickled you in the dark port. Now I stand hat in hand; I live in this world of men, all war, all lark, and I send my regrets to follow you. I send them to their grave. What else can be done? I go to the sirens, I kiss the waving hands. I watch the floating opera, feel the silt. No matter where I go here in limbo the muteness of you extends, riotous. ...

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