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Counterpoint In the ashen heart of true night, In the cold, with the rain coming on, I have prospered. Delivered to strong silence At an early age, Made presents of winds airless, Numbing, unaimed, I raised a kite of song. Nimbus and nebulae -- what are they now? Ocular needle, arcing outbound, Think of the thread I have yet to play out. Taut as a bowstring, Think of the sound!
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