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14 finding a place to park his self. He’s my new fellow and brings me flowers wrapped in indie weeklies denouncing how we live purchasing and fading. 7. One street into, and three away— we’re treading fiscal boundaries: one building with blue trim and one with tin shingles. The houses project their occupants. Where there is decay, failure, catastrophic or slowly wearing, and where there is gleam, atonement. Desire turned into itself, made saccharine. 8. Civic melancholy pushes through the traffic, so I don’t see right in this Babel. If I owned the city, so little of it would be. I pass over the avenue, assemble some ending of mine as a vision or a refusal. ...

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