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44 To The visionary Make of your blind spots a Braille strip. Now touch yourself. Now witness the coffee never grow cold. Defying entropy this morning feels good. Sitting on this lawn feels good. In this, the shiest angle of light. The blacksmith’s fire-poking of shadow. Your Braille strip I gift to the sparrows, coat hooks, they hang themselves in turn. Too black, I’m afraid, for your liking. Too early in the morning for thrill. Forgive me if the coffee brands stars to your tongue. I haven’t wept in years. ...

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