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65 HOME IS WHERE One morning in Maine she woke to a centipede, reared up, waving to her. In the apple limbs, the bees were mumbling passwords. A sodality of slugs had tinseled the tables and the punks were swaying like drunks by the outhouse, heads together, bombed. Butterflies flirted with squash rows, weeds gangbanged the lilies, and the spent dandelions with their poufed tops posed like a palace guard, atilt in wind. Instantly her body returned to her like a recognition. Hers was the Thingdom of Earth. Hers, the earth’s irreducibly complex thisness. * Nowadays she reads science because at the very end of creation she can always find herself, sand-caked cutlet out of the frogspawn, the center of history, which found her before she found it. The mere mention of the almighty divides the thingdom into His and Ours and the round moon reddens, birds drop out of the sky and teardrop the fall-fringed light. She has visions of herself as a sleepwalker waking in the middle of traffic, about to say something silly, holding her breath and then it’s dusk, and she leans on her shadow, two tall unlit candles in the dark. ...

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