  on your little grey-black hillock, ridiculously raised one step toward the infinite summits of the night: even you the few grey stars draw upward into a vague melody of harsh threads. Bent as you are from straining against the bitter horizontals of how easily the long yellow notes of poplars flow upward in a descending scale, each note secure in its own posture—singularly woven. All voices are blent willingly against the heaving contra-bass of the dark but you alone warp yourself passionately to one side in your eagerness. |
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