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is made of salt and noise and dew. Every poem is Eden and every poet
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The planets turn. The trees are bare.
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I had some guests. I invited them
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an exodus fathoming air
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Ah, you bonus illumination in this vast multiplying apart.
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Earth you know is round but seems flat.
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To hold a true note could be everything.
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I concentrated on this panel of sky
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Things floating like the first hundred flakes of snow
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On the other side, there could be anything,
