No. 179
Or like our physical insertion on this fragmentary afternoon
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watching propeller seeds of maples whir groundward
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this little energetic dance on the head of a pencil
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to look with open eyes on the sky this intense azure that in juxtaposition with densely white cirrus clouds take off
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and the wind blowing and majestic sun and crisp so that you can see each cloud’s edge’s fractal form
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like Gertrude Stein at her dinner table
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yet then there are no clouds and it’s just the sun sky reflects limpid blue
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the blue you dip the tip of a love gun in
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though it’s always as we know black dots we see out surrounded by fissures of repeating and doubled on which we are always repeating about to lift our hearts abreast the hole
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and keep it in flight auguring wind so you are the sound the shape of air Earth whirls around
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this moment between us the song’s one breath
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