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I have tried to read the world—

&

A fragment takes a shape, caught in the throat:
distance we have set ourselves against.

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All drifts away and collapses: the echo of the verse.

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Yet this vocabulary has no use – I knew that.

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To try and meet you in these lines.
The trace and not the marker.

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Ce n’est pas un poème.
This is not a poem.

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Thread for the interpretation of twenty-six letters.

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I am in an argument with myself—
I cannot speak of I.

&

Elsewhere, the poems are writing,
and they are writing about us.

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