Blurring the terrain,A pallid yellow lingersDown the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedand the numbed yards will go back undercover.whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Late February, and the air's so balmyThat square—Oh, 56 x 56Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standCalling me to you with wild gesturingsIts consciousness of my white consciousness,Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceStanding in the way of the truth. A whiteThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.and the numbed yards will go back undercover.To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
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