black over Chattanooga, reaching with
black hands, the
black widow spider working through remains, its red spot sicklied brown, recovering the chaff of hazel
                  nuts, then the
black walnut tree poisoned with a copper nail, the telephone wires, the poles sunk in clay and now
                  stopped, the
black knots of brush in rain soaked bogs, the tongues of
fire in the Pentecost fresco, the far cry, the
                  acquired language, 
none that flee extinguished, but self-consumed
blackness conveyed to those without eyes, an uncle mesmerized by the eclipse, the smoldering thighs of  
                  a once
black heifer curling on obsidian, infrared and ultraviolet visible to peacock butter
flies and bursting from
                  Mexican 
gourds, intuited white flames at the feet of God, woodworm, deathmarch and 
black stag beetles attending to the hawthorn twigs and the
blackberries’ orbed ripening, and the dung, then the monarch’s orange wings fringed with
black lines, the tires, the rubber sap, blemishes, the 
black girl I love, the lake under ice, the burnished iron, bitumen and anthracite, the muscadines and
                 concords, the nail head in barricades, the snowman’s “buttons,” Orion’s bowstring balancing
                 the new moon, impurities in marble globes, Juan Diego, with basalt mortar, grinding pigments
                 for the helmet and bored yes of Velasquez’s Mars, the Spheres of Eudoxus, midnight,
black raspberries in a Renaissance garden, and, setting themselves in the cherry tree as jewels might in a
                 living crown,
black cherries, their succulence, Sprawled on the settee, he made a fricative with his molars. “I want
                 strange box. So 
bad, and, under—” the word slept with him. Similarly, “It was February on the
                 bus. I’d had a decent 
breakfast, a few slices of ham and a Red Delicious with yoghurt,” Burt
                 said, reaching his hands into the 
engine. “This is when I lived on East End.” He continued,    
                 saying that wherever he came to the route didn’t 
touch. It wasn’t dream-like, more a dream’s
                 suspended scattering, the feeling being dropped on the bed, the 
                 day spreading as one rides a thresher. “When I finally found my way back to 14-I, I filled the
                 tin bathtub with near - and got in like this.” The tip of the medic’s needle, meanwhile, in the
                 lighter, the
black silver her pupil claims from her iris, all manner of root and tuber - boniatos, garlic, Jicama—lines
                 of latitude and 
mathematics, the Spaniard, our host, leaning on his cane as he waves us in
                 saying,
Todo es el dentro,” cypresses the peeling back of lindens and sycamores, graphite
                 cylinders in unsharpened pencils, a
blackbuck released from the surveyor’s cradling arms, the green necks of Yuengling
Black and Tans, the
blackwork in the tapestry where a blindfolded boy tries to whack a playmate with an old shoe tied to a
                 bat, the
blackthorn’s astringent blue fruit ceding to wintergreen, the mountain laurel, pumpkins, the morning, a
                 4x4 scrap of white steel on a rusted iron post behind the Sheetz with the number “89” printed
                 off-center and vertically,
                 “It felt,” George paused, “well, it wasn't a thing.” He made a gesture with his hands as he said the
                  word “thing.” “You’ll have to allow me to proceed by way of analogy.” He grew quiet and
                  disappeared until Eliza found him passed out in the tree house, a lunatic, which turns her on I
                  think because she asked me if I’d ever been with a
black man, as if we knew any others, and I told her, and could see Anthony pale thinking of George over
                  me. He was shaken. “People are people,” he said. It wasn’t the words or the way he said them,
                  maybe it was pure coincidence that it should happen at that moment, but when he came to  
                  touch me on his way inside for another orange, I was full. Piss, champagne,
black bile, a roll of mint condition wheat pennies, sunset in Ann Arbor, blue spruce saplings on a
black diamond slope, the cold, January, September, March, muleteers with coca leaves jammed in their
                  sinuses coming 
to a crest near Cerro Fitz Roy, astronauts shedding weightless tears in June,
                  June, November, the plague, June, 
March, April 
 
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