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My Eye
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. . . as if words could manage
the ligaments
tying all my myths
into a sheaf of meaning,
when merely the rustle of leaves
the hum of a distant car
the early robin
carry all the piquant notes
of reality into the sun
. . . and out of the sun
comes light again
and again and again
so that all mysteries
become the colors of the garden
and my eye
the receptacle of truth.
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