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It Is A Thin Thing

 The cat-like Sanskrit ligature for om moves quickly. Precision seems like law as a child, the voices and signs. Clouds don’t weigh, they fill perfect in the world like perfect. A pictured cloud understands. Hand it to Crow, willing to bleat while pawing the air. Another stands before, and another, even the air feels contingent. Drum beat and paced steps, boil in place. War tribes filling bagpipes sort of way to meander. Anything distinct can be improved while language or just gesture. Thru all the time and busted heart, distance as breath, the instinct of caring, outright. One word at a time until complete, or whatever Dante says in distraction to the Seafarer. Throughout the poem, the speaker explores the.


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