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Rows of pines, planted years ago – so many, were you to count them on your fingers, you would give up past a hundred span; and pain doesn’t yet know about it, while lording over all other feeling Must explain these things some day In the meantime, rows of pines, the quincunx pattern lost in spirals and thickets of lesser branches increasing their reach inexorably The man spoke of the bees: move the hive five miles and they’ll find their way; move it five feet, and they’ll die of confounding A stacking of three green boxes in the clearing, the numbers buzzing among the numbers