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August 22, 2013

No ideas but in


—Say it, no ideas but in things—

nothing but the blank faces of the houses

and cylindrical trees

bent, forked by preconception and accident—

split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained—

secret—into the body of the light!

From Book I, Paterson, a poem by William Carlos Williams.

Posted by gerardvanderleun at August 22, 2013 10:31 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.

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