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Subjectivity I measure years by days and days by hours But in the elastic hour of calculation I leave immeasurable the instrument. In my delineations watches bend, The slow distortion of amorphousness, And now the bullet’s flight may be the moth’s When simultaneously I ride with both. No frozen age, no night perpetual On Georgian steppes and canyons of the west, When a dead moon reflects a dying sun, Turning to the unheard refrains of time, Is longer, darker, than the eyelid’s rest, The veil of flesh before oblivion.  You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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