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to the french
Jean Baptise Clamence said ‘…in all things we are merely” in a way” ‘.
I possess nothing, but what’s in my heart.
But what am I to love? – the cherub morning, my sovereign hands-the sea?
How to love, how to love anything?
Turn to my silence voice of a voice.
Here whisper of you, I have been waiting.
In me you have inspired countries. Strange
devastating realms of cold lands, wet fogs
and steaming lakes.
I am full of canals and you are no where.
You do not even know, that I speak of you..
I am swarming with your absence and you
do not how do you not know my name
or that it asks of you.
Here and elsewhere, littered. Partments.
Untouch my hand that you ungloved so impetuously.
I cannot place it.
You have inspired the only light in me for miles.
And here I am, talking to myself again-
My eyes become jeweled, the colour of dead leaves.
Yet still you will not choose me.
Fog of smokey neon.
At any rate, you run a great risk.
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