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Green, a winter’s lamp
is green. Perched on a stump.
Images occur
and you float on them.
Words are going somewhere
whether we keep up
or not. Why was the lamp
green, to sing
in the landscape?
The forest was behind
the stump, it began
there. As a promise
that the past
is real. Now
it is brutally
so. Later,
it may be
silk of
spider
and no
host.

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