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60 Winter object: oath of silence For the listener, who listens in the snow… Snow of spring: dissolve in light and air where there is no light and air to join them; the smell of boyhood sage, smell of vanilla, the hungry shelled insects—hush the insects buzzing at the bottom of air, little else.Why did he kick the dried beetle? His dilemma wasn’t being mute, it was not listening. A snow-bite: there was a walk he took which grew much heavier as he approached his object, the cows, old oaks, crazed crests, sky-breadth, covering withered hills with a grave; one runted day forms a field with crows, snowball fabric gathering till it gravitates. The frozen face: a mole who will not come out and therefore, will not look down into the Earth that made him; back to the black—it is a well which is to black as spring is to water; is absence of light, baby face late in life. Earth, amnesia of crawling. Tall white mountain: trees live in perpetual dream; the indifferent sun is the object of all; the hungry plumage of the trees’ leaves; material to the immaterial. Destined for twilight with a farmer’s tan, you’re released to go live alone in the back country, die standing up like a tree, hours trapping feathers. Reciprocity from time. ...

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