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The Cubs

1.

Storm clouds, thrown runes,
this solid summer,
patient father, fountainhead
of what comes on, continuing
what has been,
skeleton of the magnificent
commonplace.
This place.
Silhouettes slipping
through marble,
the sea of evils,
mine among them.
Weeds, stubborn little flowers.
Calcium of death,
fugitive bones,
radiances.


Several tiger cubs entangled, pawing, biting each other, licking their cuts and attacking again, playing, at the border of the unknown with their unknowing. The tiger, in that shriven landscape, under a shrub. Her majesty. Suddenly, things have gone bloody, wounded. The mother's fur stood up here and there. Some fly, some bee, some meddling insect. The body was one thing and its attention something else. Quiet, perception, unaltered freedom, the promised way, the inevitable unwrapping.

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