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the thing that breathes
and stands and greets –
disarms and renders angry
seizures into
amicable
rhythms in the
blood – that argues flood into
a reasonable flow – extracts
the dense
collective sense
of random
heads and turns it into tremolo – an ornament
of tune – moon-threnody –
a melody that
orbits
in voluptuous
extravagance erasing dread. Build a thing
like that around the dead.
.
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