With New Prolific Power
Let me just say that I’m hanging from this screen into an icy darkness. All this planetary turning on a hinge. My head is fair but plain, thinking of Rutherford. I was looking in the window of a newer Canaan, but the dew on its lilies tasted like salt. This piece of my mind is just beyond the hammering, a dog in the yard drifting like trash. Every season cannot be thought at once, even when the world can name it.
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