year,
i'd
wind
the
months
in
balls---
and
put
them
each
in
separate
drawers,
for
fear
the
numbers
fuse---
if
only
centuries,
delayed,
i'd
count
them
on
my
hand,
subtracting,
til
my
fingers
dropped
into
van
dieman's
land,
if
certain,
when
this
life
was
out---
that
yours
and
mine,
should
be
i'd
toss
it
yonder,
like
rind,
and
take
eternity---
but,
now,
uncertain
of
the
length
of
this,
that
is
between,
it
goads
me,
like
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the
goblin
bee---
that
will
not
state---
its
sting.