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He looks across the hull
and slumps over the side
of his chair, not falling out.
She looks at him, alone in the gulf,
being sucked backwards into
time and space, blue and crystal,
sparkling over the end
of the world, love and lies
whirling together, taking
his eye lids
with them, becoming
a relation to a relation
of the self and lions leaping
over land’s locks blurring
into his hands. She becomes old
and wrinkled and is on the
side of a cliff
on a distant, distant, distort
nunnery, always looking and never
dropping.

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