Song of the Andoumboulou: 266

 —book of the there we’d have been—  We remained entranced by words positing   a world beyond their reach, that words don’t  go there said with words. They were speaking                for   the we that was no we they knew. It wasn’t music went where words were unable, it was  aroma consubstantial with crease and declivity,                the  beloved’s cleavage’s remit… There was a we   so whole it couldn’t be added to, the lover and the beloved’s extrapolative extent. An arche-  type, some had said, auguring more, a certain                polis bound up in it, sort-of more than certain, the we    or the would-be we we’d be. Doubletalk ob-   tained its lease. It felt good to be where words                did  not go and we were glad, no matter they didn’t sound like what they were… All was not lost we  were secretly believing, a host insistence we held                or   that held us. Another nakedness had overtaken  us, deeper than before and affording no glamor, the    is of as-it-is exactly as it was, as with nothing not                 said  nothing left. A too-late eternity chimed at every stop   on the train we were on, the boat we rode, the bus we were on… Who was to know a banana Nub was the                Nub  we’d be in we were asking. The body’s propensities   the mind’s obsession, the remanding of which was  meat for the lit season spring would be, a garland for the                

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