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About the Size of It This man runs into the forest breaking its red-tipped branches, flails among the ice-encrusted leaves, is, he says, the poet of himself. He sees himself, his vividness of shoulder, his strong arms, as one with what he fractures. He contains, he says, what he has run inside. Says ‘Woods.’ Better he should go mousely; creep flat as a dry leaf; write on snow calligraphy of his own diary doings; claim only a single errand run; report: one nut. The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 53 ...

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