Your eye is as big as a lunar parasol.
Well, that belongs to the world of sand. I don’t really believe it. It’s just too—well, shall I say it?—grand. But the holy mushroom spread across the vast expanse Of every eye of time and space And it crawled under my skin And broke the veins of movement and place. And that is the least of the least of the praise Of the good harmony that reverberates From the undulating light Spinning ever outward from an infinitude of spinning plates.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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