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112 Stone Bridge I went walking over a cold stone bridge Beside the Fondamenta degli Incurabili. a child went ahead with a cat on a leash, an old man traipsed behind, a fedora on his head, The clouds were pink with giggling cherubs. I saw you at the window of a second-floor room Filled with sickness no one understood, Your hair brushed back and your elbow taut against the wall: the russian plains hung in a print Gathering darkness and the snows of Siberia Boiled on the gas stove, in a simple pot you bought In rialto market—and everywhere the sounds Of the alphabet grating against fine paper, The whispers of those forced against their will, Cold fists of infants on death’s hill. (In memory of Joseph Brodsky, 1940–1996) ...

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