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And though these stones all night come from the same fountain they still clear the sky for hillsides and what overflows they carry back as the distance that takes forever to dry —it must be raining inside where every stone you hold has slope to it, falls face up the way once there were two skies —that's right! two horizons two mornings and the sun that’s left is still looking for the other though in the darkness you hear your arms folding —even without wings the Earth almost remembers growing huge lit and this endless rain has always depended on it, the rest is lost, calling out from your hand and even further off.