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No more satellites and no more sex, no more chasms and no more filigree, no french phrases (s'il vous plait) no wind, of course—wild, whipping or otherwise—and no flowers (or maybe a few; I can't help it.) No more body parts as metaphors, no doors, no hallways, no words with bones, no bones, no weather, no brand names or trademarks, no lines between lines,

no lines

no geometry, nor symmetry or astronomy

nothing clever
nothing cleverly simple
Wrap the favored words in a brown bag filled with rocks of no particular beauty, drop the whole kaboodle into the bay and watch it sidelong, sinking, bubbles floating to the top: palms and psalms and pomegranates, heliotropes and tropes and dun beaches, tessellate, masturbate, consecrate, periwinkles, capillaries and keenings

No growth, within or without no sinking back into the loam no home, or home away from home no lover, no self no empty shelves, no tarnished stars, empty bars, rotting cars, dusty jars, no rhyme no rhythm,

and no funny punctuation no

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