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After nosing around awhile in the high sweet grass of the world, pretending I couldn't find what you had tossed there, this old dog is finally returning. Of course, I really knew where it was all along, but there were so many concepts to piss on, and the legs of killed soldiers to eat; there was so much cunt dark with ignorance to illuminate with the electric wisdom of my cock, that I forgot, not the bone exactly, but I remember when I remembered the way back. And that was when in my sleep, the tears of hurt children and hungry, their tears grew bigger and bigger, until each one became a dead cathedral with a dry white perfect bone sizzling on the altar. I went with nothing into that green chaos of delectable sonorities. And I return now into the single vibration of your presence; aged by astonishments, eaten up by anger. Here is the bone, master. I drop it at your feet. But please, Lord, don't make me fetch it anymore.
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Author:Goodman, Ronald
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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