As if a cloud, contorted by lunacy (clear sky, just the cloud there, floating), were suddenly to reach out, the immediate midnight falters, almost flickers, almost dead on the grass here - feeling a wan song, sinking, feeling something still remembered; I'm dry, I'm a stretched skin, searching out a reason, a feeling, taut on the skyline (flat, look - for miles the moonlight finds no lump to cast a shadow) - I cast an elongated shadow, but pale, infertile. This ground is clear - a small space, seared by the summer fires that race long tracts of shrivelled brown across borders, reels motley and dishevelled along black bare branches in winter, in hollows of winter. There is something connected with borders; there is something rolling through the cracked season, something that pulls and uproots and tells the birds to fly south in a v of black feathers, in a v of surfaced knowledge. I envy the ability to leave. with gilded lungs and a hump to swing a bell from; a masterpiece of crowded laughter, the night's horizon, a sudden grin. Separated by an iron rail; two lakesided sets of ripples, two basins, and the only black night's treescape's falling But if the clouding of your breath clings to colder surfaces; if summer and the sun months mix in a hidden hollow of the long landscape... Watch the even conversation - gambit, counter, thrust, and final clean convulsion of defeat (with one flick of the finger) scar this cleanliness. They clap their hands, and you thank them; they're employing you - I could go, but not now, because of the winter you understand - and anyway, you remember looking out through the window at the night, and the condensation made the street grotesque; that's a sort of reversal of something - it reached out to me then; maybe I'm just being fooled.
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