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8 Telemachos There is a sound—a fist? I see the man in my mind wearing a sweatshirt, his hood pulled over a red hat. Orange sun moves over cars, warms the under-skin of clouds, rests somewhere on the roof of a carwash like a paper disk I had cut with red-handled scissors as the solar eclipse collected noon into a shadow among the gray trees outside, beyond our desks. Stravinsky (from his writings) dreamed of a young girl, her erratic hands grabbing nothing, wrapping the air in scarves around her neck. I drive down the highway sparking with hubcaps in the animal flight of plastic bags—here, ambulances shriek every few minutes. I pull into a gas station, wipe bird smears off my window with some paper. Pump fumes smell like greasy hamburgers. Your hair, your hair is red. The man is behind me, his pale eyes smoothing my shoulders, drawing a cold line under my T-shirt. Your hair is red in the sun. No. Sky bands the nearby Dollar Store window; feeling followed, behind some junky trees I see a crane lifting from the concrete, gold, the way a harp unfolds in an orchestra—not a wing, but a thin wild sail. ...

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