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We Are Never Real Historians
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At Rushy Pond
An impression received from a symphony.
Sleeping in the forest.
She kept burning. She burned for two hours, until I blew her out.
Sleep, take me.
You are my one sweet constant.
Apparition in the landscape.
This is how one pictures the angel of history.
The thought fox.
The only thing that would be different would be you.
You greet her ghost.
Is the unlived life worth examining?
The everyday enchantment of music.
We are never real historians.
Exhilaration is the breeze.
Until we are silt.
The river will wear us away.
Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
It is gracious beyond words.
Bright, gleaming globes.
What does it feel like to be alive?
As I lean against the door of sleep.
Arthur Boyd, my favourite artist.
Poem of low latitudes.
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead