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stubborn pulse against the throat, the same listening for a human voice— your name, my name After Elegies (3) Here in the close, most clear sun, on this worn wood porch, halfway over the beating harbor, under the round sky—the daylight moon’s luminous, fragile skull— Halfway between sleep and waking, I think of you, my old brother, difficult friend; and your moving on from us to the dead seems a few blocks’ walk; seems nothing. Are you nothing Nowhere we can find you —But you look up from your spread-out books and papers, you say —But now I can’t hear what you’re saying, and how can you hear us now? or see our rowing progress here? our bare arms pulled— Earth pulled to where it would not go. 138 door in the mountain ...

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