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| I Sit On My Hands I sit on my hands watching the morning unfold onto a white screen, the night reel packed away, animals, murderous hyena's. On the right I can clearly see dark, sturdy arms of trees, the slim moustaches of the deft bushes, carrying their bridal flowers, lace kisses dancing in a summer-field stretching far into a wheeling, slow dusk, evening and pearls of lamps, eyes going under. 30 March 2006 |