The miscast seed
in winter / when the last leaf is withered / its green cloth vanished / and golden ornament eroded / the beauty of a long-drawn voice ringing through a field, a zoophorus, of flowers.

What could be an ugly tree, hoary & knobbed, sporiferous green growth, branches naked of birds, sheds the fact that the ape is tree-dwelling, whereas man moves on the earth without clinging to branches, having himself become a tree, in other words raising himself straight up like a tree, and all the more beautiful for the correctness of his delicate pink blossoms. Across the street, half-encased in a rugose gray cocoon, a tree is birthing out of itself. There is always something more gripping the earth.

Before I was born I disappeared
Existence is a riddle.
A code
 A code?
What is not here is not there.
A voice falling away

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