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46 Music in My Head I don’t want news this morning I don’t even want my son (just past one) not to cry a little when I drop him off This cold clear blue I’ll take, endless color And the maple up the street, already gone past green A mess of reds fired in a night kiln Each a shade that will become different tomorrow Whoever’s responsible for this made it so we don’t have to believe anyone or thing did and, today, all the little lambs in the wood know there’s no one who can watch over who can be the one, because a one—Was there ever a one? Made by whom? Who makes a maker you don’t have to believe except a one who can’t possibly see how to watch over me ...

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