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106 dIAne gersonI-edelmAn Cento: Falls the Shadow If the day writhes, it is not with revelations. Your doctrines blew like ashes from your bones sprawled in the bowels of the earth, Preserved, obscene, to mock black flights of years. send out your signals, hoist Your dark scribbled flags, These tracings from a world that’s dead, so foul, the hovering buzzard sees it fair. I play your furies back to me at night. Across an autumn freezing everywhere, Past fingered ridges and their shrivelling span, The moonlight is laid like a drawn sword. Perhaps the soul only puts out a hand. Breath quickens, heart beats faster, till at last, echo of mine, I am amenable, The mortal begging in the squandered sun. ...

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