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This is your passport I hold in my hand:
a hemisphere, half red ink, half blue--
as yet untorched by terror, but polluted
perhaps by the gaze of the future. For
example, the shadow of the parachute of
my desire, this rip-cord of your photo-
blink, your eyes translated into these
flashing sad idioms. Take this blank page
for the remainder, the last boring national
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