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{coming in two (1/2)} t. kennard cant write a poem/write a story tried to write a sonnet /looked at the snow spinning thought of james wright dropping a terrible book of poetry behind a rock, then listening to a cricket sing thought about the ice atomically touching more crisp ice & how its (on-some-levels) music. sat down/erased everything and my hair stood, ---tens of thousands of rowdy soldiers, or even orchestra composers & there i was |
