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“Otherwise than I remember, still the same as I had forgotten”

“Otherwise than I remember, still the same as I had forgotten”

Ourselves still intact,
contriving story,
help me, please, every syllable
side parched, the sets to the window,
and an afterward no world reads.

Our hand (our own)
was the war.
The so called loss
(not called loss).
A quip about mercy,
of sleep in the brim of it’s veil-
whose cure, beyond it,
lyric-living-relentless, hum-bum
in the inner fine net,
language enclosed at the bottom of our keepings,
where we are, or were, then different.

To move out past the declaration:
‘that is your fucked state.’
In the world we have been impossible,
that experience too, impossible.

Down wind where light curves,
thinking: ‘I am bringing everything into this,’
there is more,
circling right through the palm,
soil and largest part.
Isn’t it, our largest part?
To lend the burning its virtue-
our us, (one) virtue burning in total resolve
after awhile.

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