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your hands fizzle into
whirpools that tell the future,
but only when you are in sky and
conversing with when with
ox heads and tongues with
british atheist wit. They cast a drizzling
spell across the hinterlands, where
I grab the head of a stag and we
meet to join the hordes wandering
south, fighting into africa
jumping on the backs of hartebeest, plunging the
earth into menses