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48 A swaying path swallowed what we gave it for directions by foot until we no longer understood the laciness of our maps and we sat down in a field of eyelets (hope woke open, and copied the direction of patterns a sowing) in the forming dunes in their written over their own writing— or the floating schedule on the silvery back of the river snake always new from its shed moment— we copied the runoff unending of its ink. We drank. It made us black Earth ...

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