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71 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g s i l o , s p r i n g v i o l e t s By the violets in the watercress new grass under the slender ash trees by the rooted-river spidery bankedge, I fold in with edible, lavender butterflies, each next each in a wandering myth of body, and crows. I do not know who I am, or ever will, who invite friends to see a silo of memory, whose house is an empty plot between an uncovered well and this other cylinder of poured concrete. We go clumped together as a kind of a way for a while, then take our single stems aloof. Listening to music in the dark, I feel a great sphere of violets and water and grass riding in the night between us and the moon. It cannot be looked at directly; it is more elusive than even our fluttering stories that leave a silky damp in the air. ...

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