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Crow considers Heraclitus
And wonders if he was right, the stars
And moon just bowls filled with fire
Their hollow side exposed to us
In other words, a fake, a sham
Fire fed by the exhalation of the sea
The universe, then, a larger concavity
And everything in it merely a drift
Of minnows, pulsing in the eddies
He tries to banish the thought, worrying
Night to outline of branches and
Reflections of tinsel rain, trees
Blackened and hollowed by lightening
He refuses to speak this language of dust
To indulge the syntax of emptiness
The world creaks in the wind, everything
Unfolding, unnamed and disorderly
Until he can no longer look up, dizzy
He falls into another dug out self
What if each day is only a copy
He thinks, the original long faded
Description then might be called a place
From which to leave, and so he flies off
It seems more than obvious that nothing
Is about to happen
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