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“There is no energy in language, for reasons unknown”

Is it what to want- running into it crazy-paper crazy, through burial song bird, that/this distant emerald anyone property- the Isis female in her jewel box not knowing the body problem, the probable nothing- the too-ing and fro-ing to find a curve, the destitution of it’s light, our ingesting, regal leaflets, aged aggression, this early somewhat agony, (inward night song) – love me, I have swallowed a star then, to give a communion to the ground, a (photo water) of footstep memory, of flinty boy-girl fortune- the trailing labor (as we are) toward a foreign version, a necklace from the cut twin pine- to your magic fruit poem with the border of silence, with our end of thinking in flight from barren metrics, as if we could cut the light out of a ruby, as if we would know how not to spill too much- into eachother, but still a tiny shell birthed from wave and forest residue (where we walk like upside down owls guarding the heavy tent) the line closing its promise in the soul, where materials have aged and our details too, somewhat, our never happened and laughing voices.

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