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89 La Porte In the seam between day and night, wind ruts the dirt road and ruffles the milky way of dandelions. The young among them are greasy gold and urgent, while the old are balanced between growth and that explosion past growing—annihilation, culmination of a beginning each has always been ending toward, admitting more and more space, until what’s left is beyond color, a bleary truss of matter and air. Shocked accomplice of the rounding light, how you tremble in the stretch of your death, which is like all deaths, geometric with seed. Wind-swimmer, eye-floater, white-nightgowned grandmother dancing your platelets on the head of this pin, can you show me how to wish, how to gather and scatter this single hooped breath? ...

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