Ashbery Erasure

Dinosaur Country

A bath, tin words, the stranger

just so, declined to cognizance.

One waits, or is tomorrow a

vision, the race for the new here.

A subtle, sky-ridden anybody asking

those islands to last, which, incidentally,

bloom only.

I’d thought the woman was shouting:

“Last time! My face is your delicate frost.”

There was you, coming up to me,

a whisper about the Romans–

what was done.

That surpassed as much for you,

and you for everyone to see,
still the shadows toward the white. . .

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