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8 Le Corps Bleu Busy and bored as an angel, back to the cypress-lined coast, returning as facsimile of the original. Face down in serious pleasure, a troubled sky’s yellow domination laid out— too rich to be unkind. I don’t lead with the stray stuff of memory’s hard-ons. Rather, I paint water into a ball and clever clouds as water, favoring the painter’s license to practice fate: splicing familiars to a new concentration of what’s sacred about love and its demarcations. With a morning moon now slipping toward the cold storage of mid-harbor, as both signature and hex. I hijack myself from my strokes, piecemeal, scheming out of context. I’d even play left-handed if only to gain speed between the hand’s eye and one eye’s uncounseled argument. You can snap all that in the back of your hat. ...

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