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Poem	We're driving across tableland somewhere in the world; it is almost bare of trees. Upland near void of features always moves me, but not to thought; it lets me rest from thinking. I feel no need to interpret it as if it were art. Too much of poetry is criticism now. That hawk, clinging to the eaves of the wind, beating its third wing, its tail isn't mine to sell. And here is more like the space that needs to exist aound an image. This cloud-roof country reminds me of the character of people who first encountered roses in soap.
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