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No matter what party is in power;
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the bird forgets its tongue, like a time traveler
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Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,
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it seems you must let them come
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What is there for thinking is for being, suggests Parmenides.
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ears of the wind
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we forget what / we remember:
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I am the mystery, occasioned as myself,
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I live in several times, motionless but furnished with all motion, for
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we are fractured / like stars
