The day left off with a kind of singing "bang." Goldenrod in a small sea-like air, specific and unbroken. I cannot favor hunger or its alternatives. I cannot describe salt. In a parallel universe does anything intersect the confused blossoming blueness of a wall that is not sea, not goldenrod, but the paper fastening of you, standing against it? I favor concrete between our rage and its mirage. Its broken line. Catch the flying saucer but spit out its metal mystery. Adore the big green nothing of the past, the rationing of calm late in the century, like the arches of a brick heart, letting go.

 

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