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in the desert, nothing but nebulae
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I come into the peace of wild things
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Consider Tanguy whose lunar responses to childhood
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Like incense comes to me
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I was a god in that body.
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Perhaps I made those flowers in my head,
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But the dazzle above, enclosing
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Come out into the open, into a clearing,
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And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
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summer leaned in the doorway