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49 The red spot on two mating cranes was their prisoner; but it was their dancing that would not let go of their beauty: the bruise of who holds who the half missing half or the accomplished egg of the masked dancer half in the crane suit; that spot is almost an unoccupied music in our time that won’t let go someone dressed up like nature trying to dance up a future. Putting on paint and feathers, stepping one of us through survival, do we all— If I teach this phoenix to dance would it partner my way to walk, tell time, would I fly— Unable to be anywhere but here can I get out of here the secret how to hold my spot between steps in that burning mid-air to the next— How much secret of my own step can I get turned over to me by the torture of possession in this mask, this interrogation of ground going after the air? ...

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