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Mishandle Your Bags

 Light captures time set in the lower Tigris basin. The red sun hangs on a shrub by effect of perspective. Crowded lips of speech speak of rocks as the making of, in time, in the chance of forever, but dwells in one spot, alone on earth. The dwelling may be changed Past the bent fragmentary oak branch into the litter of stone and  learned tufts of grass covered by leaves. An acorn imagines a place of light thought. “Soldiers, accept my thanks at present; eventually you shall thank me. I will see to that, or my name is not Cyrus.” (the river had manifestly retired before the face of Cyrus, like a courtier bowing to his future king). The letter of singularity completes as it disappears.

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