self
of passions whittled
rhythms of memoire
forgettings
in absence
event leaves
dried
unfold enfold no
explanation
....
/*Let's go back, Walt,
& let you explain the grass*/
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An act of fiction, Poison in jest
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1 comment:
Your poem to Whitman. I get it. But what does it have to do with anything in the rest of everything?
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