*
What made the numbers had no number,
maker of place, the one
who lifted water like a box
and slid it under land or up in sky
then poised to fall in scintillations,
the scintillating sheets torn by the trees,
this one, the one who placed, could not be placed,
but lay and deeply lay within the waste,
a presence? could you call God that?
an absence? that was just a word
that poets used, but true words had to be
walked into, truth was more a kind of walk
that you had to *do* even to
know what you were trying to *do*.
*
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