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School is, what the world is. Have I sewed my hands to yours? Five minutes later in the eye of God You and Kate and Jeremy are dancing. Glad, derelict, I find a park bench, read Birmingham. Birmingham. Birmingham. White tears on a white ground, White world going on, white hand in hand, World without end. Riverside Now, with March forcing our brittle spines like first childbirth, Scattering our notes, making the house cold inside, Riverside Park turns up its vestiges of God Where bare-faced boys in their sweat-suits lope through the last light Alongside long-haired girls, half-tree, And every dog is a brother, or half-brother, And the cold-war babies span their tender fists, 198?, to net the sun Spun gold in these thousand pigeon brown windows Then out in a mushroom of neon over Hoboken: And I, like you, am I, in the eyes of the angels. Winter was the time for the kind of death we enjoyed: Then the crust of the earth was something arbitrary; Branches roots, the sky a vein of tin, Leaves rose, smoke fell, all the old ladies Waiting on the benches grew beards waiting. We talked on the phone, napped, grew white and dry And leapt at misunderstanding, forcing the news Every day, the news of the end of love dream barker 57 From the earth’s four corners: then left home in the dark, Dropping pebbles behind us, came Into the cold: tears from the cold Stood in our eyes like tears. Now, with March, The woods begin to move, and I Hold your body in my mind, and see In each man here a mooning orphan boy, In every long-haired girl a bearded lady, In every dog the green part of my mind. That couple stops: tenderly He carves their initials in her bright green bark. She takes a child, the moon climbs one slow step And stands alone; and I Keep in and chip in my sleep at winter’s bone. For Teed April 6th: the country thaws and drips, The worm turns under the town, Under the world: the freed earth gapes In wily Ulysses’ lips, The dust of his wrist rests In caves that were Penelope’s breasts, Even the dog is gone White-eyed to Acheron: No Elizabeth, no Jack Has come back. Here lies Teed. Surviving her are God, can you hear her Sing? how earth is freed Of Teed’s winter, 58 door in the mountain ...

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