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The Real Real

       Whoever sees the real charges the eye with a flare. Keeps evening kneeling, a
blue-smoked air stripped of its string of

lights given as the park to the people and where they move there, from path to
path, each node cinched and fluid, the cold edge of a run over ice to

where the middle is a bridge and not anything separate. The weather for it
melting, I mean the way it’s built out of the ground and because

of it a shelf is what it says will last, will hoist the fables of the margin even after
the spire is misrepaired.

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Patrick Pritchett is the author of Burn, Lives of the Poets and Antiphonal. He is a Lecturer in History and Literature at Harvard University.

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