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Untitled
Mark Strand
Like an eye coming upon something
not ready to be seen, something
in the shyness of its shape
about to be what the eye
might have met with later
but with less pleasure, a scene
maybe, or a tale, or a sense
of either, or even the last stage
in the unfinishing of what was,
it was like that. "Like what?
like what?" Well, it was as if
you were the first to see it,
the storm of stone, the fractured sky.
Summer, 2000
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