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by Gary Snyder
1.
The painful accumulation of our errors
In dry summer, and her loneliness
And that distracted weeping
Of hot endless afternoons
Foretold the famine
Her swimming fondness
Stretched taut in sterile time
Contracted into dusty fractions
And now the crops are failing.
Since my sorcery has failed
My blood must feed the soil.
Let no delirious priest proclaim
A second coming;
these fragments will stay scattered.
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