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88 By my life-lumps! becoming already a creator, Putting myself here and now to the ambushed womb
 * of the shadows.

A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund, sweeping, final.

Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household,
 * and intimates,

Now the performer launches his nerve—he has
 * passed his prelude on the reeds within,

Easily written, loose-fingered chords! I feel the thrum
 * of their climax and close.

My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of
 * mine.

Ever the hard unsunk ground, Ever the eaters and drinkers—Ever the upward
 * and downward sun—Ever the air and the ceaseless
 * tides,

Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked,
 * real,

Ever the old inexplicable query—Ever that thorned
 * thumb—that breath of itches and thirsts,

Ever the vexer's ''hoot! hoot!'' till we find where the
 * sly one hides, and bring him forth;

Ever love—Ever the sobbing liquid of life, Ever the bandage under the chin—Ever the tressels
 * of death.