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166
in the shifting polar packs
(so the authorities suppose,
nobody knows)
in his fresh rose feathers no one can see
up there, not even he.
in the canyon
More distinct
than ever we
can be,
their ways
remotely
crisscrossing ours,
gods
each
with his one
virtue
(or maybe two
or three)
by itself
simple,
disclosed
with such unintended
sureness and
so glancingly