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74 ∂ WindoW, bird, sky dAy FoUr Like Buds Such gratitude as might be held by the wide-spreading topmost branches of the most noble trees— Where can it go, if not up to the heavens, or to the depths of earth, which yields to every step, commanding nothing? Or perhaps it has no destination, no reason beyond itself for being— like buds that cannot help but open, never stop opening—Oh what’s the difference, what’s this need to know? Let it go wherever, to burst the seams of meanness, puncture the blistering regrets, letting loose the grieving to nowhere or somewhere, whether or not you know its name. ...

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