dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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Wordless, I fell asleep over the book, the erasure of language complete, & repose deep. Then back awake after some mountain range like the Pyrenees, or steep hill climb in Glasgow imagined in snow rather than summer heat wave, or this cool night here at home. Night like all three crows flying directly above me earlier in the day. Black-Winged Night wants me, & yet I fight to scratch out letters, carve them into the most random of little notebooks, actually situated strategically all around the house as occasion warrants. Mark this night sky down approaching the equal of the flight of three swallows acrobatically splitting apart above the Bridge of Allan on the last day there forming a perfect triangle in memory, looking hard as we were then, (with Time threatening to run out), to try to catch immediate experience, or Time in the act. The birds all in the abstract.



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