Not understanding, not being able to, then doing it so well, lovingly stuck in it, returning to it only to be absorbed by it, keeping it close, and, deep in all this, all questions return as answers, like what is Bukka White singing about, friends coming in from unexpected doors and windows, balconies extending over new lands, familiarly new lands, like persons and hands, the good-mornings of the new days.
Vasilis Papageorgiou
chromata 
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