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 image by Emilie Clark

 How is art to be confined to a little hut in the field?


 
 

But all this is detail, and details can't
emerge, like minutes out of a passive

clock, forever

 
 
 
 

Patterns blow through the glass or
grass, and the grass or glass is aster-

isked, epitomized, just where the

apples are donging into the dust with

vehemence, arguing against some-

thing, material gathered against the

inevitablility of death

 

 

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