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  • The fire ashes him. The wafer-
    esque moonlight pools upon
    the underscape of his eyes of
    night. His is not a story, but
    the shuffle of aspen one morning;
    the spill of cinders glowing some many
    years in the campground of dark
    remembrance. Burning by fire is
    the radical injection of air, to an equal
    degree, to all parts, a mob of molecules
    and air, a transformation through
    divvying-up. He is his reinstating.
    He is his again giving a cadaver
    to the concept it orphaned. He is
    his watching the flights of smokes.
    He is his walking storeward for coffee
    and churros in his grey coastal morning.
    He is his burning. The fire is its
    ashing him. He is his piling like together
    in a list. He is his listing.
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