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Three-fifteen /1 Srpen (August) Hearing the dark rut, the first stars forming, the wind from Jutland: a clean tongue of wind after rain. The sudden light startles the mosquitoes. In the village it was like
that. Air [as being] water after the night rains. Thin lips
intent on blood. And from the mouths of the girls of death, a warning
song : A book of blood in my lap. Opening this, a colophon of red: what is inscribed in the body waiting all day for night so day will come again. This morning I missed the ravens. They've gone to Sweden. Their huge
nests in the high thin trees empty. Month of scythes. Mosquitoes everywhere. They say between your legs the
moon looks miraculously small. So black out there it could be Christmas.
In this sky even Eli is still alive.
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