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36 SURRENDER After René Char, “L’Innofensif” I cry when the sun goes to bed because he undresses you in front of me and because I can’t get along with his nighttime rivals. He’s gone down now, his fever has gone down, and there’s no point in struggling with him, trying to pull up one last shoot from his warm bed. The obscurity he leaves behind dissolves you as stormwater thins silt beyond the landslide of a ruined bank. Hardness and softness in different sources have the same end. The song of your speech is exhausted. This thing in my hand isn’t the linchpin of your wrist but a stick from the woodbox. We don’t give a name to anything now except the shivers. It’s night. The blind lights switch on in my face. Really I have only cried one time. The falling sun slashed your neck. Your head rolled in the grave of the sky, and then I couldn’t believe in the morning. And the man of morning, which of these is his shadow? ...

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