There is a place of slipstream golden
where all the world is beholden
to every dream you have.
In August, when the Amazon is changing colors,
When the silt is evening borders on the edges and the shores
Of seeping moss and strange floors carpeted in leaves of trees
Native to the region
Out of Season from all the other places on the Earth
And in that space you can discover 
the lyrics of a wing splitting the air
and the babble and the rabble in the rushes under foot. 

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