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38 M Y D E AT H The pigeons fly up past windowpanes to the rooftops, then beyond the rooftops. Pigeons fly up, not doves. The dirge of traffic grinds to a stop. Someone tries to rub a cinder from an eye, and so much sunlight streaks the brownstones a comforting rust. This is it, the perpetuity of it all, as I look up at the sheer face of these cliffs, suddenly bright with patches of moss and wild with the shaggy white petals of wood asters. What I have become is this emptiness that rests within the cusp of an open semicircle embraced by fronds of maidenhair. ...

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