Where does the string of thought lead?
Is it only the hopeless chatter of crickets
Above the black and white sphere
Of Yin and Yang?
The helix spins out of the sunset,
It's blade slicing 4-space, dream-space, sex-chase,
The rhyme that dances through the casual chains,
Like President Allende's final message
A silver cloud for the future:
Love your murderers
Whose naked light is your own.
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