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R E N D E Z V O U S In the glen of my heart, where baton-white tails of Dear scare, in this clearing that I snowshoe into, in serious sweat, tripping on twigs, maybe by a half moon or full enough I see the forest open up, these stuck-in-the-snow trunks pretending to their rows, an evenness that this heart ’o mine envies, breastbeaten and stupid half the time, the other half lost, where did we put it—love? It can’t be far, I just set it down, where the creepy owl sweeps past, and I expect a cackle, not a Who? where the tracks, so bare in the fresh fallen fluff lead out, thank god, made by the one who introduced us, Miss Serendipity, who’s gone to Florida but has left us suet. You 44 will be furry and sleepy after I clear the clearing, bête noire, nette bois, fête Rene Char, the fire insta-light between us, its ash filled with messages about what happened there. Anyone who can read them will surely lay the logs again. 45 ...

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