The dead gaze back across their special days:cloud above clover, crisis above the crow ...Such new horizons, yet they still approach.They know how eclipse and ecstacy edge along together:whisper and wink of wind, but no real weather.
Between practice and prayer there's always praise.Mist and mistakes are in the text.And now here's the night – nobody's next – and poetryfalls from the crucifixi ...
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