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Slowly: out of that sleep that numbs the knife edge, I come home to a various world, to faces and voices, To a blur of angels at this keep, awaiting.

Vague prophecies of life somewhat lasting, A testing of steadying heartbeat, of firm susperation.

Such is the welcomed review of my waking, I, who long wait a review of old words: Indifferent journals stack high in the dusty library.

It is time to set this whole house in order: With what mutual joy, then, this steady acclaim; A cold stethoscope even assures of rumbling gases, Last sign of return to the intricate, the elemental.

What joy in this communal moment devoted to life: We celebrate this late voice of my waking, The lowly intestines surrendering recovery.

Slowly: I shall return to dark bread and deep wine.

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