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Outside is primal; vulture, jackal, crow,
Waist high edges on dark grey sky.

Ahead, the fitful silence, behind
Life's gordian knot of dust turned surface.

And the living politic unaware
Glides down Hollywood and Vine,

Places its handprint of Satis
On some after worldly celebrity,

Then swears the dead hobnob
For lack of a vivid imagination.

Outside is primal; lion, serpent, wolf,
Its thin moon over grassy stalk

Sheds the intellect for instinct,
Corners its hare with shadows

And ballyhoos its manifestation
Down some darkened glen.

      — David Sutherland