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   s t a t e    o f    w a r    5 (t h e    d o g m a t i c    e g g)

--- D I N U   A D A M

translated by Adam Sorkin with the Poet

My song, perfect imperfection, which birds cling to in sleep: they shudder in their sleep, then, and dream their egg is hatched and already broken- and from it, shining peoples of honeybees scatter and, with them, over the rim of the nest, oil light trickles forth toward the world's glowing windows.

However, the air's meaning, and that of the wind, the bird's meaning, and the meaning of birds' flight, the grass's meaning and the meaning of the steps which make the grass bleed- there is somebody who holds all this in his hand as he holds the birds in his hand, and the grass and the flight and the wind, and the warm eggs from the nests;

and we, we hold this poem in our hands.

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