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69 Young Scientist Learning Soft At sunset, I cannot let the soft things go. They bang their heads into the porch light they pray to, to let them in. Nothing lessens the panic of brown crickets leaping from cellar walls. Their home lost in a light-flood, they could question first their abandonment to night. I know the world as mostly fire and fright. It pulses in the flesh of each hand I shake. I know it flicking the jarfly’s plastic wing. I know it towing her into air on twine. The green skin of the katydid flexes and rises to meet match fire. In this light, everything must marry and writhe, turning into ghosts of smoke. Hard-shelled things curl to death in sleep. Out the window, the staff of breeze carries less and less the hymns of autumn. It will not be over until everything is one. I bite my licorice and watch the fun. ...

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