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There is a sound like
clouds at the side of a mountain
rushing onto the hand of
a man in leather like
heaven wrapped on the words
of an alchemist. He can sing
and love, paint words like
skin hanging, dripping with
blood from the south, st. ambrose
of the victory over the voice of
rock and rolling thunder. Swans
flying into swarms of human. They can walk and now
they can run, touching, never mentioning
killing, swooning monkeys,
talking apes, voices
like gold,
no one
to talk with. no one
to song with.

He walks up the path
even though it is snowy,
sees his daughter run faster
than he’d like.

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