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Not an exegisis
Having never read Thomas Browne's Urn Burial,
I pretend that my eyes once glanced
at its lines, found them shapely
& well turned, even if perhaps
the spiral created by its multiple voices
induces images of vertigo & a scraped sense
of destiny deflected, a/k/a
put on hold for generations
as measured by the slow descent
that freshly disturbed earth makes
when time is an image repeated
at ever expanding intervals, i.e.,
a series
of infinitesimal, yet infinite, end points.

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