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219 PATrICIA VAldATA Cento: The Waves Are Running in Verses The world is a mist. And then the world is Cold dark deep and absolutely clear suddenly turning dangerous. Here is a coast; here is a harbor; Turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. The waves are running in verses this fine morning. Wasted, wasted minutes that couldn’t be worse, Whatever the landscape had of meaning appears to have been abandoned In watery prismatic white-and-blue. With these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line, Plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence, sinks through the drift of bodies, Lifting them fringed with heavy drops, drifting simultaneously to the same height, Wet, stuck, purple, among the dead-eye pearls. ...

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