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someone has touched the moon
check with your cold
hand as the warmer one might
jeopardize the sanity the cheese
has found so hard to come by
touch a million sq. inches and
you have touched limitless gases
rock births and collisions, sand stretches
striding off into unimagined star
metropolises.  even closed, your hand
touches things and breaks patterns
down, the stuck
rhythms of cheese being
aged over and over then pressed
into performance.  in saying so another remark follows:
it is not always beautiful to
lay out on the table
expectations, not when
the moon's cold hand, closed or
open to millions of whatever
scientific measurements
present themselves to the
members of our universal society,
presenting with more mystery than
syntax.  the moon says we must
use our hands instead of
everything else only in order to
welcome it all into this
expanding compartment
to this order of disarray

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