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the drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood.
blame it on the full moon,
this loss of logic.

the clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
or the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

it little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.

 

 

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