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33 XvII There is no doubt, kin is my search. I want to connect these lines to the ones charting my face in the faded mirror of time. This need is visceral. And yet ideas are robust as plump well-fed geese and this is the lie of it. I don’t seek kin here. I seek adoration. I seek worship. I seek the voice of my father. First of all, I do not buy into mythological figures, so fuck odin and his tree, yet wounded trees mark the spot, an itch unreachable. But still gazing odin summons the runes. I say futhark you say tomatoes. And the deep is this dark mark across the soul. This poem is an animal Terence says and sips some coffee. That way language can sprint across the desert filling it with an oasis. And why not? This pure flame, this pure fire, and these scars our nomadic natures carve across us. If this poem is an animal it’s all Percival’s fault. If this poem is an animal. 34 ...

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