with visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,Blurring the terrain,Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,And up there I cannot tell if it is stillAgainst this sky no longer of our world.Along the walls are only empty niches,Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastThe face of a Quos ego),That open before me? What I seeBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyGreen lilac buds appear that won't surviveNot daring to opposeOnly a whiter absence to my mind,The pain of being born into matter.By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyDown the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanWheezing ravens, whenXIII. The Route to the North
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