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A VISIT / Wayne Koestenbaum My house was bare, but like a vase, it held Flowers enough to last the air raid out. I broke the sealed door anyway, to scout The ruined town for facts. I saw the old Transformed to new, mute, ash bouquets, a hell Floral and workaday, the people strolling On Sunday shopping-tour, the air cold Fire—though no one seemed to know. A well Deepened to let an ancient water wear Complexities to sand: the stream ran Simply, by my old ghetto, and like a hand, Touched with human force the accurate face Of one I'd photographed, and loved. I bear Her traces through the altered streets in haste. The Missouri Review · 125 ...

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