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  2. So these are the Himalayas.
    Mountains racing to the moon.
    The moment of their start recorded
    on the startling, ripped canvas of the sky.
    Holes punched in a desert of clouds.
    Thrust into nothing.
    Echo—a white mute.
    Quiet.
    Yeti, down there we've got Wednesday,
    bread and alphabets.
    Two times two is four.
    Roses are red there,
    and violets are blue.
    Yeti, crime is not all
    we're up to down there.
    Yeti, not every sentence there
    means death.
    We've inherited hope —
    the gift of forgetting.
    You'll see how we give
    birth among the ruins.
    Yeti, we've got Shakespeare there.
    Yeti, we play solitaire
    and violin. At nightfall,
    we turn lights on, Yeti.
    Up here it's neither moon nor earth.
    Tears freeze.
    Oh Yeti, semi-moonman,
    turn back, think again!
    I called this to the Yeti
    inside four walls of avalanche,
    stomping my feet for warmth
    on the everlasting
    snow.


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