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At dawn, when the heart
in its homespun freedom gasps
at the accurate aw of the crow,
the lichens line the trees & stones
to write without limit in extravagant fonts:
no split, splayed Ws, spare
Vs in Helvetica to Roman Times,
some Cs in Cambria, the species race
in Kabbalistic thought from syllable
to sense, Everna, Usnea, italic
From cracks in back
of the start of time where the arch
of intention freed itself,
love moved through the signs,
Ramalina, Flavoparmelia, Candelaria concolor,
to write on fences in groups of cloud
& there the burning soul will rest
at one with the burning maker.
Sit down with the gray-green world
where a world will write itself, go on—
you were not there when it began;
it can go on without you—
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