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f within tonight’s erecteverywhere of black muscles feelsa weightless slowness(deftly muting the world’s texture with drifted gifts of featheriest slenderness andhow gradually which descending are suddenlyreceived)or by doomfull connivance accurately thither and hither myself struts unremembered(rememberinglywith in both pockets curled hands moves)why then toward morning he is a ghost whom assault these whispering fists of hail (and a few windows awaken certain facesbusily horribly blunder through new lighthush we are made of the same thing as perhaps nothing, he murmurs carefully lying down)
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