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to wake to the dark, misread the clock, think it says five, sky between blinds black, turn again to the pale green numbers and its two-oh-five, you've slept an hour yet you're awake as though a night and a day had passed. but this is the day and the night


in the eyepiece of the camcorder: a woman wearing mostly black, black turtle neck black pants, walks quickly down a city street glistening with rain. Pan to my face reflecting the news of her astonishing departure. We be what we be.


"Being cut again and again causes extreme pain, so do not be afraid when the white pebbles are being counted, do not he and do not fear the Lord of Death. Since you are a mental body you cannot die even if you are killed and cut up. You are really the natural form of emptiness, so there is no need to fear."


Like soft cotton swaying the reeds in Hellcat winter gold. I think it's Emma Goldman I've fallen for each time: a spirit that hisses: nole me tangere
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Author:Melnyczuk, Askold
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
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