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the year turns into air
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I mean to say the rough-hewn edges of time and space,
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tour de force
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And then out of its own goodness, out
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or. The deer, nearly / Color blind, see blue
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The secret is to walk evading nothing
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I wish I were the spare shadow
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Isolate landscape. World’s grip.
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The moon suddenly stands up in the darkness,
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Be, and know at the same time the terms of non-being—