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65 that spells Farewell Yancy, there’s a name. “Lotus eaters” like our work. No colored lights. You don’t exist, so this proves everything is connected, the same character markings in your face (I wish I were there) lost in thousands of yearly transactions, old stories that become figures of speech, crowd-out new stories till they float like spores in a gorge . . . They make the river a gorge. The water lowers to its latter marks. And this green pepper tree hides in its graceful complexity of leaf. I look to leaf. I write the word “subject” on a blank sheet of paper. I crumple it with my hands. I call it “object.” That a photo of a chair is the chair, is prosody, the multiple reality called home. You’re left with your mouth hanging open again, staring in libraries among books at their names, where I amble in my witness among you. But nothing was ever a classic, only a bounce, like Yancy’s. ...

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