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I used to take people in, find them chairs, try to get
them to stay awhile.  The ice sets on the outside.

I have my burden of miscommunication to carry.

As if my whole existence has been rejected,

I walk around reeling, with powers useless,

unconscious.

           At the bottom, closed-circuit void,

           un blur the entrance, a killer of psalms,

           dug in, wisdom less, cursed with joy,

           throttling the mutual organism for pleasure.