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92 h o p e m o u n t a i n No less ice sheared my face. It was my face that had discovered, then disowned, sea. Could not stand, in its twitch, waves could not be stilled or sheared to sand. A scuttling nomenclature, its frothy bits, in which I stood disarmed and posed among some growing buds behind me. White on my back, a white glowing. A color entrained by minuscule light—soon size of dream is enough. Early it is enough, white sand, no less the sky. The sand covers more. Its availability, false graininess, covers more—is washed more away. You traveled from another place, another beacon, the place you are, are reading from. Which is the same, this sand. Your head restrained by dew and its reminder. A morning comes. A morning comes the plight, shakes robins from the tree’s attrition and then carefully is gone. Pushed from the shore. Your wet hands. Later the land again 93 received. No less than salt. And she turned back. How many times has the story been read? The human is capable of looking at another’s back and marching. It was warm there. The crumbs bothered me. I said come in and I fucked. An open pocket, a rain on my hands. How I lasted. Joining the look with grass. Enough for a hill or mound less above than below the ground. Pulling through sand I found it, plastic, like a painting late style, as painting always was, of sitting beside a pool, splashing its face, sounding out its face. Alone among the air, or its repose. A calm scene, middlefocused , self-aware. Blinking at transports, the trains or films waiting, following and carrying. Sun made the trains, miniature, sent the bodies, next to coal. Aside the city I declined and wept. The day flashed. The problem, impotence, was flesh. The prior generation too much of flesh, which wanted repetition of love, not its outcry. Then on the sand, crying, for impossibility, and the man standing back above on the hill. Wringing his breath. The grass then looked down greener, subtler. Then flourishing the springtide, volumetrics released back up. ...

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