A speechlessness, whereof the gist—bare & at a standstill in the midst of a partly visible crosscurrent—forms the secret surface of the sound as a lake’s layer, the same old stranger as ever, once like ghosts, like squibs of threnody.
A childhood sky, other skies, another body it diffuses, unimpeded, as dense at the edge as at the center, with spellbinding eyes glutted into the shadows, not with my eyes but with the other’s, but it was me.
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