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34 Two-Part Descent My shiny dark-brown coffee cup foundering in bright grass at five o’clock of this April afternoon has filled almost completely up with shadow: In green tide tilted, it wallows, brims blackly, exactly as the world’s footprints, ravines, and hollows brim, or will be brimming soon. What rises in it drowns the world in sleep. And if I let it keep, some laggard fraction of the moon will grace its walls, its little unsupped lake with the ghostliness I take for umbra now: And so, and so, until a stronger darkness still comes welling, and I am sunk too deep for even dream to light my brain. Morning will see it drain. ...

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