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30 A trinity of goods O hush: o how? I hear of peace but hearing flees, I rush to be infinities at once. To run and word and fuck, to hold, to rain: ‘splain, Lucy, Ricky said: I can’t. I’m not self-contained but self-maimed, selfstuck . To change, I womb pebbles under tongue, not the stuttering many but imaginary ones. Of quiet, of ease, in the theory pretend becomes mend, the actor the part. An art: evolution. I am yet a font of frail and false, of starts: stuck. A bit of jittery sit, of mumbling om, as I seek a sense of being that has nothing to do with doing, done. Good grief: good god: good luck. hicok pages i-120.indd 30 1/7/10 3:23 PM ...

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