from POLISH MOLINO
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Goodnight to all my dears
The forgotten blackbirds on the twilit lawn are getting wet
The moon is so big that it can't fit through the window
I want so much at this moment lyrics swallowed by heart at night
The liquid vertical heart
Blue flow of foreground on a blue background and die easily
While we are looking for a common
With all the polysemic force of “projection”
Made habitable by that neither relative
When light comes to color the surfaces
and a separation remains
Of wild bedding
Down
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Hadn’t we known it all before?
The last attempted inwardness
of the blue and blown books
The promises magnetized by pastures
Little care lane and fen for object loss
Inhering in the externality
That enables us to remember
What requires even pain be ornate
The difference it makes whose body
Your breath passes through
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I shouted that it was finally time to fight the airport
and start devouring each other
The bishop in the river blessed the birth of fish
The whale fled to the beds of fragrant lime trees
Someone’s hand no one’s it seemed drove a nail into my mouth
Bulging my thick neck burst forth and flooded the century with fire
“Figure”
is the name Wat gives to the born in this gap
Supplementing the recesses with treble with spur
A roll of alternating “m”s and “w”s
Shot at
Saturation valleys
Absolute exteriority valleys
What it would mean to write
without bowing and scraping
Vision poultices the subject
All earth is the color of being buried
from POLISH MOLINO
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Clearing a crease
pined
Nowise
co
Some twine
A nervous system not of persons
that dithers the scenes
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Then I bowed to the economic miracle
And nothing was admissible
Then I scraped the visible plume of the volcano
And it was more than a reflex
Then I denoted the action of a poultice
And the precarious attained relevance
in an intensely mobile flux
Then I called it existence
And the triangle became more federal
These prepositions are not under the real
“Cause” and “case” rose from the justification
Accelerating carnal anodyne repentance
for the future we could not have
redacted
Looking for an accent
In this space without choice
Pauses on the faces
Their context partly biscuit
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Barely there
radii
What must be said to braid
A landscape is born at the same time
that an agreement comes apart
When F says
“the hay smells like it’s breathing”
The circumference folds plaintively
where you can see the lamp clays
And I get this coarse languorous feeling like
“it is the last of things they have thought”
As an exhale
in the ive
whirs
Toward mer