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. . . To pound the cliffs Like a sea? The chronic repeats, Feeding rubble of chalk into the salt, Might only make tomorrow turn inland —

Away from dealing with the sense I want to make,

And all delighted dealing of my sense.

* I have much need of cool declension, Generation of things in regular form. Give me a word to meet my little speech —?

The sound swims back unbroken: back from you, To meet me, marking time with nails on level tables.


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