Pseudopsychosis.

“where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.”—Ezra Pound.

The apparition paradise projects onto
streets like death,
into the turn of the mountain

Forward on its side
where ice fell and mingled
leaf-like into the ocean

In pure rhythm like a God
in kinship with free
tamed with the ice-cold

Be it known in all hour
as beauty falls alone
where have all they gone?

They had gone home.

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