• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: dog

IN THE ‘SCONSET BUS by William Carlos Williams

02 Monday Dec 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1932, bus, dog, ears, gold, hair, head, love, mouth, neck, passing, portrait, travelling, William Carlos Williams, yellow

                IN THE ‘SCONSET BUS

                      Upon the fallen
                      cheek

                      a gauzy down–
                      And on

                      the nape
                      –indecently

                      a mat
                      of yellow hair

                      stuck with
                      celluloid

                      pins
                      not quite

                      matching it
                      –that’s

                      two shades
                      darker

                      at the roots
                      Hanging

                      from the ears
                      the hooks

                      piercing the
                      flesh–

                      gold and semi-
                      precious

                      stones–
                      And in her

                      lap the dog
                      (Youth)

                      resting
                      his head on

                      the ample
                      shoulder his

                      bright
                      mouth agape

                      pants restlessly
                      backward

 

from POEMS 1932
it was the revelation: that there was of such importance, in the minute observation, with wonder, of the minutest things, with love, and their intersposal with each other, with relationship, quite denuded of any sticky intention, that let’s them so; that has made WCW such an influential poet for me

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

bus wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
dog wormhole: on / that / day
gold wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain
hair & mouth wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
love wormhole: poessay XI – piquant love
travelling wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
William Carlos Williams wormhole: POEM by William Carlos Williams
yellow wormhole: travelling,

 

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on / that / day

11 Monday Nov 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2019, 6*, arms, bread, breeze, brows, cake, chickens, Darmstadt, dog, ears, elderflower, family, feet, friends, happening, harps, Jon, Krishna, marriage, people, pine-cones, salad, Sara, serviettes, sunlight, trees

                                on
                                that
                                                day

                when the breeze was high in the trees and the sunlight
                occasional across pebble paviours

                when the harps cried ‘hallelujah!’
                and the puppy’s brows drew ears to attention of
                                chickens!

                when the cake was spread before the salad as only Krishna would have liked                
                and families multiplied like fanned serviettes

                and friends came together like classmates
                and peoples’ feet jumped one way, their arms waving the other,

                Jon and Sara pulled the bread and divined pinecones and elderflowers
                when things really had
                                come together beautifully

 

Jon and Sara married a couple of weeks earlier, but we celebrated later all together

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

breeze wormhole: at Kreukenhof
dog wormhole: 10/22 by William Carlos Williams
family wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
feet wormhole: waiting to be heard
Jon wormhole: early // Minoan & Mycenaean Exhibitions in the British Museum – diptych
people wormhole: boiled spangle with soft centre
trees wormhole: travel // when I die

 

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10/22 by William Carlos Williams

20 Saturday Apr 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 1928, 7*, barrel, bayberry, birch, dog, field, grass, green, leaves, orange, rain, red, water, white, William Carlos Williams, yarrow, yellow

                that brilliant field
                of rainwet orange
                blanketed

                by the red grass
                and oilgreen bayberry

                the last yarrow
                on the gutter
                white by the sandy
                rainwater

                and a white birch
                with yellow leaves
                and few
                and loosely hung

                and a young dog
                jumped out
                of the old barrel

 

out and not wet from The Descent of Winter, 1928

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

birch wormhole: Hastings: neither all or nothing
dog wormhole: London refugee march – 120915
field wormhole: ‘… plane is upright …’
green & water wormhole: Puerto del Carmen
leaves wormhole: travelling / back
orange & red & white & William Carlos Williams wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
rain wormhole: Rain, Steam and Speed – the / Great Western Railway, 1844
yellow wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – pageant of the trees

 

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London refugee march – 120915

18 Monday Dec 2017

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2015, 5*, architecture, balcony, buildings, capitalism, denial, dog, economics, freedom, global, justice, London, migration, people, Picadilly, politics, power, protesting, railings, refugees, roads, sound, stucco, sun

London refugee march – 120915

                                                there are
                                no economic migrants
                within global capitalism
only refugees

                                                you can’t have
                                a free market without fair-dom
                freedom for the mass
is individual

                the dog
                calmly
                sniffed
                this bit
                of road
                that bit
                below the
                plackards
                and the
                whistles
                on a lead
                past the

just too beautiful
                railings and balconies and
                                stucco of Picadilly, sun on the sides showing
                                                all the finial of denial

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

buildings wormhole: glide
capitalism & London wormhole: place
dog wormhole: slightly / uphill
economics wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
justice wormhole: listen willya
people wormhole: passing
politics wormhole: just saying, is all VII: // `spolitical
power wormhole: I turn to wake up
roads wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 220211
sound wormhole: om muni muni maha muniye soha
sun wormhole: city streets

 

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slightly / uphill

18 Monday Sep 2017

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2014, 5*, black, dog, downhill, eyes, garden, grass, head, house, leaning, portrait, running, Salinger, shrub, time, uphill, walls, windows

                while the shrubs and low wall
                and even the grass
                                leaned
                journeying towards the shuttered-
                window house

                                slightly
                                uphill

                Salinger lay downhill
                head locked intent into the eyes
                of the black mongrel who was
                onthepoint of running away
                                all the
                                time

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

black wormhole: ‘charcoal grey-slate sky …’
dog wormhole: with endless love
eyes wormhole: just
garden wormhole: while
house & windows wormhole: … vague / thunder
time wormhole: holiday
walls wormhole: every step I take

 

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with endless love

29 Wednesday Jun 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

'scape, 2016, 5*, arrival, coffee shop, dog, found, hoping, identity, Ironbridge, love, passing, pavement, poem, talking to myself, tongue, walking, wandering, wondering, writing

 

 

 

                           so don’t just arrive here and wander
                           about hoping for the poem ready-made
                           and reasonably priced to be la-la laa la
                           found and claimed with a waving flag rather

                           be the scruffy dog with tongue-out-pulling
                           the leash-sniff every leaf-post along the
                           narrow pavement blocking-awkward-step-
                           over walk of its owner with endless love

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

coffee shop & passing & walking & writing wormhole: reaching branch
dog wormhole: dog bark
identity wormhole: more than effigy
love wormhole: 1964
talking to myself wormhole: zero

 

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dog bark

13 Saturday Feb 2016

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'scape, 2014, autumn, clouds, disappearance, dog, leaves, notice, oak, pink, sky, sound, writing

 

 

 

                                                              pink
                                              vapour trail
                                in the turning sky
                which descends to mingle amid the dark oak leaves
                                has disappeared
                                              by the time I check
                                                              to write it

                                                              dog bark

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

autumn wormhole: purple and mauve
clouds wormhole: clouds
dog wormhole: ‘discution poli / d’orage …’
leaves & oak wormhole: London Park in Greenwich town – poewieview #5
pink wormhole: three musicians
sky wormhole: bamboo-green boiled sweet / with soft purple filling
sound wormhole: 1966 … actually sic // of it allllll-bsssssssh – poewieview #8
writing wormhole: seventy two, perhaps – poewieview #9

 

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‘discution poli / d’orage …’

30 Saturday May 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

1979, dog, haiku, passing, portrait, sea, talking

 

 

 

                                                         discution poli
                                       d’orage, alors les deux chiens
                                          regardaient la mer

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

dog & passing & talking wormhole: Totnes
haiku(esque) wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
sea wormhole: between

 

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Totnes

29 Friday May 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

2015, arrival, being, career, communication, dandelions, dog, drawing, feet, identity, lifetimes, living, looking, meaning, muse, others, passing, pattern, pink, pointlessness, portrait, ripple, river, society, sound, talking, teaching, tide, Totnes, travelling, value-bled education, value-led education, values, work

 

 

 

                                                              Totnes

                                talk
the 250 miles long about the work and the communication done –
                done – thud! – with balls on the table –
                                and working with value
                                              and never the twain shall meet
                                                              with all the crack of void amid

                                hah!
                I tried to navigate between value-bled and value-led teaching
and can only work part time now –
                                splintered work from life

                                but
                you have to stick to the A roads
                                whether they are by-passed or not
                                              and eventually you have
                                                              to arrive
                and watch the dandelion stems by the river
                                is it out or coming in …?

                                I think
                                I learnt
to let lives be and not disturb the ripples
                                but all along
                I didn’t realise the ripples have no pattern –
dogs on the quay wag one end pant the other
                look up river look down
                                then sit
                                panting

                                I thought
                to read the ripples, tell their hidden story
                                for all the world to see
                                              (for all the world to flow)
                but I didn’t realise all the while the ripples have no pattern
like the heh-heh-hrr-hr conversations
                                from the spreading terrace of the
                                              Steam Packet Inn

                                              ~O~~~

                                now
                there’s a dude with tattoos, vest (and
                                is that a joint?) finished work, she takes a call nahh!
                                              lays down
                and the most beautiful pink
                                soles ‘n’ toes
                                suns rise
                behind topless dandelions
                                              (in the next life
                                               she will sit up and sketch intricately
                                               to the right and just below centre of the next page
                                               of her notebook)

 

(short break from work over a bank holiday, to Totnes in Devon with Carol to see Elizabeth – the medicine of travel)

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being & feet & travelling wormhole: [start where you are III] – delve
career & talking wormhole: Trinity Arts
dog wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
identity & looking & others wormhole: lifetime
living wormhole: (another / gulp of air)
meaning wormhole: addicted / compulsive / identity
muse wormhole: ambling around / the garden centre
passing wormhole: prologue-ing
ponk wormhole: hot summer / morning
pointlessness wormhole: mass
river wormhole: the 20th century
society wormhole: up here
sound wormhole: 1963
teaching wormhole: gazing at the night / as my eyes passed the jagged hole / my head disappeared
value-led education wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
values wormhole: breathe it all / in
work wormhole: To my Mum

 

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1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012

15 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

10*, 1959, 1960s, 2012, 2015, 99/1, abandonment, air, airport, America, anxiety, apricot, art deco, avenue, beauty, bedroom, birdsong, blossom, blue, books, branches, breathing, buildings, business, Carol, Central Park, charcoal, childhood, choice, clothes, clouds, coffee, coffee shop, compromise, crane, Dad, divorce, dog, dream, Eglinton Hill, evening, eyebrow, eyes, falling, fashion, floodlights, Ford Anglia, freedom, furniture, ghosts, glamour, Glasgow, green, grey, haiku, hair, Have, history, horizon, hotel, identity, life, lifetimes, light, lilac, living, London, looking, love, magazine, Manhattan, marble, Mini, mist, money, morning, Mum, music, New York, obligation, pastel, people, phone, pink, plane, posture, radar, reaching, reading, roads, sadness, sidewalk, sitting, sky, smile, society, sound, space, sparrows, speech, spotlights, Steely Dan, streetlight, sun, sunlight, talking, taxi, terrace, texting, time, traffic, traffic lights, train, travelling, trees, uniform, waiting, walking, walls, walnut, white, wind, windows, work, years, yellow

                                          1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012

                                straight out from school to Heathrow on the M25
                                a network of lonely roads going nowhere, then;
                                waiting, studying coffee highlights in the green
                                lobby with blue spotlights and pillared space for

                                phones to pace up and down and talk it still is,
                                loudly; at the next hotel we wait with more spot-
                                lights in our eyes no matter where we sit; furniture
                                deco-curved and just off right-angle, held together,

                                material to wood, for decades with check-
                                pattern and slight stain; there is a locked-in-
                                ness in our world on all sides which only our
                                future eyes – that never look directly – betray

                                in their gaze; early flight tomorrow; in the
                                morning-effect light shifting, the mist hanging
                                around the base of the sky, land spread with
                                low buildings always on the horizon, flat and

                                matt, before the sun flanks their edges into 3D,
                                radar-spinning, floodlights turn off, arms of
                                cranes hold their reach, and … the control
                                tower; 3567 miles and I didn’t bring enough

                                books (you can never bring enough books);
                                I travelled for lifetimes to arrive in New York,
                                still the same person: roads scraped and pock-
                                marked, trees still reach and lean in front of the

                                sky, people still live city life breathing in and
                                out the power of my money, lights still go on
                                in the evening and in between traffic shoals
                                the sparrows bicker in the trees; in room 506

                                over Central Park, already I am familiar with
                                the lore of the branch, the places-to-go apricot
                                street lights, the white path lights, the traffic
                                lights and the ‘cheeps’ bounced off building wall

                                between the lmmmdmda-lmmmdmda – laersssh
                                through the rain-dusty windows, under grey-sky
                                steel-clouds and the slowly shifting charcoal; but
                                then there is always the next day, the ever-waiting

                                gulp-open and blue-chip sorry of impressionistic
                                sidewalk, the walnut marble frontages walking
                                south up into downtown in cold air between
                                buildings and didn’t bring enough clothes (I never

                                know what clothes to bring) – by Radio City ‘with a
                                transistor and a large sum of money to spend’;
                                everything created for living beyond subsistence
                                everything produced at cost through labour

                                everything earned through labour if you can get it
                                everything obtained at price and compromise
                                everything experienced at cost through trademark
                                everything Had, but no one left to have it …

                                everything that is uneasy in the modern day
                                was manufactured behind the half-closed blinds
                                of America – home of the Potential and Slave –
                                and yet … it is so sad-beautiful: the space sculpted

                                by façades of apartment blocks giant arm-widths
                                apart, communities of single window – italicised
                                nib–scratches – stepped upwards and backwards
                                the Avenues of Uprise reaching higher and

                                lower again and again and again; America has
                                so much condensed history since it braved the
                                conceit and responsibility, of choice: cleansed
                                by ethnically assimilating, pledged by conforming

                                allegiance; Someone had to make a stand against
                                all this equivocation and by God Almighty We
                                Made   that   Stand; `made continental infrastructure
                                out of it, far bigger far more reaching even than

                                law and democracy … … but there is such
                                width in your sadness – lilac blossom before
                                marble façade; such height in your sadness –
                                giddy out on the balconies looking eight floors more

                                above; such blank in your sadness – when you
                                skip my English joke and call ‘you’re welcome’
                                from the till; such sadness when you ask for
                                change outside Starbucks; even the trees through

                                the hotel window, even the wide sidewalk cleaned
                                for strolling and not curbing, even the smiling
                                doorman in brown suit … all Had; all kept
                                in place by gigantitude, everything kept in place

                                by gigantitude, (when I was young an image
                                of a building so many floors high pinnacling to a
                                turret roof on the pink cover on the blue cover
                                of the insurance policies that my Mum kept;

                                my mother is now dead the policies came to
                                nothing); 99: “for all the freedom and choice to
                                be Had, life is hard when you pay with your work
                                and no time left and no money to choose

                                leaves you tired with no sense of humour”;
                                1: “for all the freedom and choice to be Had
                                life is anxiety where you pay for with your
                                history and obligation, never stopped still-

                                enough to choose, leaves you always with
                                dyed hair; look, only on the fifth floor of the
                                Eldorado, a man at the window canary short-
                                sleeve shirt turns back into the room, traffic light

                                booms out on a long arm swinging slightly taxis
                                u-turn as the sun comes up from behind; women’s
                                magazines, waiting for Mum at the hairdresser’s
                                in the mid-sixties, illustrations, young tree avenues,

                                blossoming handbags, little dogs on leash, promise
                                of love, promise of life, promise of man’s jaw in
                                boardroom where cologne cinches the deal, slight
                                smile signs the papers: maybe later some chinos

                                and open collar on the terrace; there was a calendar
                                brought home from work (“not needed … we work
                                in London”) – buildings of Manhattan, can decorate
                                my room, make my world, all the stepped down

                                walls of windows up which b-e-y-o-n-d myself
                                giddy and beautiful, I cannot look up or down but
                                keep them high on the wall; going out in the
                                evening Daddy ‘have to’ ‘to do with work’ ‘can’t be

                                helped’ white shirt bow-tie, clean-cut neck cologne
                                ‘good for contacts’ ‘if I can, just’ ‘business’; there
                                was a new white Mini, a new white Anglia parked
                                outside on the hill over London, Matchbox models

                                to match for the boys, going into ‘business’ ‘make
                                a go’ Dennis & Dennis, home, evening drinks, meet
                                the family, the boys play Dennis G and Dennis P
                                for years after; ‘… Daddy is leaving, he will not be

                                coming back’; I had thought it was all pastel-blue-
                                and-grey beautiful but the glamour got to him first
                                and now I dream of falling off balconies and ledges,
                                (do I fall up or down); evening: ghouls from the

                                subway gaining and pushing but the top trees-only
                                gently leaning, hybrids swashing yellow down the
                                tarmac in schools while the thunder of a plane
                                descends; morning: eyebrows raise like coving, the

                                reggae lingers      then kicks in; a neat rhombus of
                                sunlight unconcerned across her cheek, a blind rolls
                                down, ‘I’ll just read a chapter’-fixed lashes, the
                                rhombus travelling now across collar bones between

                                her white collars; Carol reads far better than me,
                                she reads history as it happens, she is the ‘captain-
                                speaking’, she knows what time it is      in other
                                countries, she knows there is no airport in Glasgow

                                (she also bullshits when cornered); now I miss all of
                                this, I see only peoples’ posture contrary to their
                                eyes, and little else; I came to Manhattan and saw
                                your avenues of strange displacement your streets

                                of darkness and morning-side; I found I was there
                                a lifetime ago, but you left me and I have moved on
                                now and I shall not be back, there is no need;
                                I shall celebrate your strange beauty from afar;

                                Newark Airport: everybody here / is talking all
                                the time to / someone somewhere else; the control
                                room sits            overhanging on the concrete stem,
                                fingers of cloud float nonchalantly by, with no delays

                                today, two girls study magazines, swap articles,
                                a third texts constantly with fixed smirk; but you,
                                you are so beautiful with hennaed hair braided
                                neatly back because you are in uniform, you are

                                taking a break, ID and equipment around your
                                neck, clear dark skin, grey shirt and St. John’s
                                badge eating a bag     of crisps with eyebrows sharp
                                and eyes so white looking, not talking     looking

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

abandonment & streetlight wormhole: dawn
air wormhole: just
anxiety & Carol & crane & Have & lifetimes & London & love & pink & sky & train & travelling & white & work wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
apricot wormhole: only
beauty wormhole: smiling
bedroom wormhole: sunny morning
blossom & branches & waiting wormhole: I could step / more open
blue & grey & mist & trees & walking wormhole: right to be
books wormhole: a light rosé
breathing & life & speech wormhole: living mystery / murder theatre
buildings & identity & society & space & windows wormhole: where the real action // always is
childhood & dream & Eglinton Hill & ghosts & green & looking & morning & time wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
clouds & light & posture wormhole: Buddha Amitabha
coffee wormhole: poised patiently for / hours
coffee shop wormhole: yet another sprain / of ‘Jingle Bells’ straining / to propagate yet another / tired Christmas spirit – … / ‘sanner clawsis coming t’ taunn – yeah’ in a / coffee shop with condensation / running off the snowflake transfers / and the iphone at the next table / talking how 50 means 900 a month – not worth / the drive (left his scarf behind – / collateral) … about my age
compromise wormhole: Dr Strange V – all the words of all the times of all the worlds speak
Dad & traffic lights & yellow wormhole: ‘“Never,” said the Sandman; / he blinked …’
dog wormhole: silence
evening wormhole: lobby
eyes wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
haiku(esque) & hair & Manhattan & people & roads wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
history wormhole: 20th century / schzoid man
horizon wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
hotel wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
lilac wormhole: Herbert Road diptych
living & sitting & sound & sun wormhole: crumpled / notebooks / at the end of a gentle retreat
money wormhole: The Future of Teaching: performance or capability (‘oh, not ‘teaching’ then?’)
Mum wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
music & reading wormhole: sometimes
obligation wormhole: scattered
smile wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
sparrows wormhole: zazen in everyday life
spotlights wormhole: ‘the dining room …’
talking wormhole: – sigh! –
walls wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
wind wormhole: Christmas

 

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