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Rain Snakes of water and light in the window snakes that shrug out of their skins and follow pushing a path with their heads full of light —heavy trembling mercury headlights— leaving trails of clear grass, and rocks, nests where they half live, half sleep, above ground: Snake where do you come from? who leave your grass path and follow me wordless into our glass water and light house, earth wet on your mouth, you the ground of my underground. Sick, Away from Home My head the Jenny Lind’s head, the painted tall ship’s figurehead: full, staring eyes, beautiful: but instead of the prow’s wood at her back, at my back a Monarch wing, and the head and the wing held up not by her wooden neck and breasts of wood but by an upright, silent thumb: dream thumb —me dreaming over the wet electric New York streets. growing darkness, growing light 219 ...

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