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47 Ocean and Integer Shut out of sleep all week, I unhinge from my body, become a stirring in the stars of my hands, those little quarrels of bone and heat. Thunder runs through the hall: my daughter and her doll stroller on the old wooden floors. A little dripping in the kettle and falling rocks of steam in the pipes, and this may as well be an essay on alchemy. Yesterday, I took her to the pool, submerged her little body to hips, shoulders, chin, astonished mouth. Her training in freedom must be incremental and guided by my own radiant face asserting its joys. We swam then sang then seared ourselves in the shower and walked home through the farmers’ market. Corn bread in slick slabs, amber jars of honey. 48 A woman with almond skin and a shining crown of braids bent to her bushel and handed my girl a Red Delicious. We ate that apple all day. Its flesh was gritty as clouds rolling low over water and thick seeing. It was just like poetry, and when I say all day, I mean we ate it right down to the seeds. After all that white body, those pips of bitter wood on the tongue can come as some relief. ...

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