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wanting him alive, not wanting him dead. Their knees grind over the sea and make malice. What is love? What does love do. Home Breath entering, leaving the leaf, the lion tense on the branch luxuriant, the ten-foot drop to the water-hole, the God-taste —that’s what lights it up, Nature, and Art: your skin feather to feather scale to scale to my skin and the airy sleep, like wine . . . two soft old children’s books with the red and blue and green crayons still warm on us. Long Irish Summer Day A lorry scatters hay down the road red as blood. Down by Tommy Flynn’s a young man is sowing in the ten o’clock sunset sowing salt tears on the road —not for the ice, we already have sand. growing darkness, growing light 229 ...

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