And our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them like toenails, clipped them like ends of split hair.
Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.
our nerve filaments twitch with its presence day and night, nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying, nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have.
Don't eat those nice green dollars your wife gives you for breakfast.
Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
In June the bush we call alder was heavy, listless, its leaves studded with galls, growing wherever we didn't want it.
In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.
The last cobwebs of fog in the black firtrees are flakes of white ash in the world's hearth.
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