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45 many KInGdOms tOward yOU The map in yesterday’s suitcase, a river whose name dropped vowels and feathers in its hurry to bring us here, notes eased from an old piano, flowers touching down—so quiet a way of speaking this country of wire and silver bone. Somewhere a forest enlarged with moonlight, weeping what hands could not hold, waits. It is snow, a way of speaking many flowers at once. This silk or sky, gathered dogwood at great distances. The way your eyes are snowing, always, many kingdoms spoken at once, stillness I avalanche toward. ...

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