You touch the moon on the water, and a century collapses into a train. Its light shines on sea-tracks, which ladder up from night into blue dawn buttered. And now unfixed factories march across a plain to kidnap fugitive workers. You've move to red rim-rocks' edge, watching all this--you, the tin-pot emperor of images, brewer of creosote beer, melter of topaz, sadly deposed sheriff of a county that never existed.
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