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38 At the Day Where we were playing, where we were loved, a body was destroying its body above us giving us a way to see the vacant faces then the oval-faced lakes with their grinning and by the time we noticed, it was raging and bloated on the verge of speaking up or wrapping us with what it felt and then you said, as was your wont, I am only here a moment passing by the field again, I am only here a moment passing by the field again, the motion of which lacked conviction and failed to convince us. Meanwhile elsewhere and dutifully, the subjects are filtering out through the doors back to the outsized pink evening lit up with old myths— vespers and aspers and all that—holding on in a real sense to what they believed. Gorgeous music they were shaking from the harness of the mule but she herself was laden with the psychic weight of building the place and the hedges which kept out the neighbors. Good, says the good Swiss physician, spoonfeeding muesli to one of his patients, but what was the dish his wife had unearthed in the field? Why was the glacier reduced to a tarn and a large field through which we hiked to the northernmost tip of the continent? I’m tired, every boy says happily, yawning up a chorus out of which the mouth flares like a paper luminaria, framed by the other red of evening. ...


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MARC Record
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