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S A C R A M E N T O D E LTA My anarchist talks while i’m driving (i’m tired but she is thriving—) beside pylons in flood plains, near marshes, culverts & storm drains, in amethyst mornings & clear, past exiled gulls, veils of oil, sooty dancers & streams that are sometimes enough. We must do something but what, she asks. Pheasants fly into ditches; fields bubble & broaden. The unknown Future waits wrapped in itself like a larva, almost alive & awake— 8 4 ...

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