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I got all lost there but now must find you in the noise
and rain no matter in the deep hole of the earth its
planetary song all down the ribbons of its side
and I am like the song that sings its seize poised
on the balance of youth man and boy teetered in the numbered
clause of its dilettantishness and my own peepers
see less now thank goodness or like M. used to say
My word, and I am the pondering one
the wandered adjective making his space in the each
that way you get free too, as each dilattantishness
is your space, and the mystical angels of theology speak,
sing, rattle wait for your song, the song of the spheres,
of the body, and someone said, this kind man,
said, thank the church and then say, I will call you,
don't call me, and who said jesus was a man, and what
gender was he?
... there was that lost poem, too, from Beaudry street,
I don't know what ever happened to it., and so not wanting
to lose the strand, I return, turn and turn gyreward inspace
inspaced toward the supple truth which is my truth,
and the supple line as the Philosophers say, they saya yaya.
And I remember a certain someone, from a meeting, an encounter,
a rendez-vous, I don't know what it was, but I know this,
those who haven't been around as long, don't know, what's
it about, to have been around, as long, and stayed,
and so the night goes, like smiles wreathed again with
skies which travel down forecasting the weather, and
smitten with this and that, I yield to the penetrated sky.
Stop inhibiting! she said, even with your smiles, exclamation
points, desired night, and dash day. I am the stupified
Knight. I did not realize what I was.
I did not realize how much I wanted to go to Russia.
Till I saw that girl in Paris on her way to Russia,
trying to get sober and sobered up, stuck in Paris,
but not stuck, only starting the start of her real start,
Rimsky-Korsakoff does that to me, not Paris that called,
that calls, but the snow, and Russia, the tundra,
here now at this moment of summer, called by the steppe,
and it makes me weep, this music, calls, called and call me.
Leave I want to leave, called in my body by some ruin, there,
it's not Doctor Zhivago, but it's part of that, yes,
it is, some song on the innard part, parched by its need,
wetted by its quench, wearied of the shop talk, double-
and triple talk of a thousand stars, and a Red Star
now faded into a language I don't know, never knew
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