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> And so each venture is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate, with shabby equipment always deteriorating in the general mess of imprecision of feeling, undisciplined squads of emotion.
There is a fire intense that frightens. Children falling endless in dark skies. We wish all away but nobody answers. The holy book backs men that they may write more easily. Carrion sit watching for the fallen floors. White light far away beckons to cold peaks. The child seeks a life it can hold, fully-formed or a shard of glass. Substitutes sing us to sleep in the meanwhile—where? This time without place nor evermore any order. The mind needs silence for the turning taste within; alone the spirit of our law leaps. Weights pull this way and that, somewhere in the middle we forget ourselves. The bullet is a miracle until it is a crime. Everywhere there are green shoots pressing blindly against the impossible until it is possible: we must play the same.