Is this text a final version? What version is “the” version, when the moment of publication urges its sending? When does cut-up and fold in become the drapery of self and other, becomings the name of trees and lakes, and fatigue takes your body for a rest, the text no longer its mating, and meeting, between the t’s of teeth and naked bodies cheek-to-cheek and memory’s wild lake, and your lover like a song, urging always, something futher, pushing a comma, a dot, or pudding where red weddings take place, the taste buds between the sheets, or wearing bells and cape, or bells and boots, what was that memory , Hamlet? Hamlet? will your shining become all the nights of your ward and award, and it’s your first book and second, and the pain in your ribs, the club of night and day, den and thief before the always twisting place name of elm and willow, weeping into the river, that glows, as usual, a night, an alphabet, a seizure, a king of sizes and days.


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