Language wasn't any funny money I was playing with, no toy surprise, no watch or wooden nickel, not a nickel nickel either, twice removed, sign of a sign. I meant to make so deep a song it held no end of love. But now I'm dumb to frame the stream of stills I feel, stuck in the onrush without any one that I was singing to, without a you, and currents go on running up a bill of silver senselessness—the seconds counted in the hundreds, in the thousands, in the billions, till the till is burst. Remember how enormous one old swollen moment used to be?

Remember how we loved position 99, the one where you look forward? Man, as I look back, I wonder how did numb get so comparative? How did the verb to come (our childhood's bright infinitive) become so narrow a necessity?

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