And now I begin to find truths in books,
though meaning eludes my capricious mind,
so I put each new text on tenterhooks,
and dry out doubts with a vision refined:
Desiccation is a dangerous word,
and it cracks over my hands like lashes,
from a thousand tiny whips which then blurred
said vision into a stream of flashes:
Dark light, light dark, dark light, light dark, dark light,
as the rains fall in between, I can see
why lightning blows out–since it glows so bright,
why rivers give out as they reach the sea:
Each page fades out as you turn it away,
or we write what we read, mean what we say.
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