The dreams of morning, at night, like
the countenance of infancy is so distant,
so second person.

This dusk death, a sallow spine of a
so-so book reddening by the reader
cut at the edges of paper.

The book, in a language comprehended, only,
when you flip the pages, fan them
& smell it-
it was blushing, that sanguine disease,
at the beauty of human mind
& the mind of human beauty.



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