—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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