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Only the quatrains of Blake
roam this forest, the paws
of his thudding consonants, only
the quatrains of Blake.
Or perhaps some childhood roots;
that snarl above the mantle-piece;
revising shots at noon
astride the backs of elephants.
The hundred terrors in the mind,
in dreams, in wild yarns,
always the tiger, the inevitable,
the stories have it, man-eater.
Like God was when He died:
striped and covered in scarlet.
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