a deep buffering thing, rolling in --- I have mylegs clefted tight, driving, I describethe land as the armpit of the earth flopped intothe arm of the earth, freckled and brown againstflat blue sky: porcelain tile squeezed behindhills, chipping fresco. where are the Experiences where are the Summer Experiences; I reread books I first read… Continue reading poem: late july
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 