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Unlonely, at the level of a grave of the dead
  shining with sight, viewing
  tendrils impossible to grasp land-wide,
       tongues cross-purposed
       machinery of desireless love
                sky's curve turning


        they hammer their fists into a world-wide riverbank,
       bored of the many beautiful people
         audibly lamenting their own virtue
     knuckles' print like a genital map in the mud of the earth