the real,

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  the real problem is all of those who wish you, wish one to say things in a non poetic language,
 to say all the things that are poetry in nonpoetry language and the two are not identical not remotely not all at all at not at all, nor are explanations due no desired nor wanted, so one writes things, fake to say  pretending or assuming masks, t he mask of this face and that, this book and another, or  a voice to poise saya false doctrince, a premise of what is and isn't the case, the bender in the wood, the ring in the tone, a hue in the fox, but there is not l

  no  L
          outside the poetic  long  ,

let you or them exexplain them, the pale forest owl, the rocking , creaking table of the chair,

              across the word spreading its horus, bull and it's spreading everrywhere, the
                                                            gathering feathers,
                                                                            not the explanations of the exploiters,
                      nor the would bes with the best of the best of

  shall, a wood, a  worr  see a song?

                              tell us no nothing as the wandering you took to the road,
                        at them day and night,

                       nor the worrying of all the beads, nor Benjamin's clock

                                     nor your darling's watch,


Strata are not dates? are dates figs then? figative pigures on the dare of knowing time's (done) escape and death's the body?