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suit away he sees the green earth click for the first time: the lightest girl the heaviest ocean coming to themselves and to his hand. He sets a comradely couple walking down his white road, hospitable; hears a shiny boy and girl, bird and bird having a time in his green water. Clean against it all one last hour all alone the moon man’s open everywhere: This mass is his salt his girl his sky his work his floor. The Child and the Terrorist, The Terrorist and the Child The globe’s on fire in his hands and everyone’s asleep. What will we feed him when he comes? Just getting to know his step, his voice, pilgrims 97 my step, a way back in the dark to where I go without telling lies or leaving anyone, will take a lifetime, and it’s going slowly, and there’s that bluewhite shell I turned my back on at my back, cracked, stuck to me bone by bone, turning to stone, wanting to drop, wanting to turn in a cool globe, wanting to call —You, how is it with you? Archaically cut off. Antarctic miles. Night From this night on God let me eat like that blind child on the train touching her yogurt as I’d touch a spiderweb the first morning in the country—sky red— holding the carton and spoon to her mouth with all her eyeless body, and then orientally resting, the whole time smiling a little to one side of straight ahead. Pilgrims Standing there they began to grow skins dappled as trees, alone in the flare 98 door in the mountain ...

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