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113 Snow at the pitch heart of winter my parents appear dressed in thin cotton, holding hands. He’s come from a tent reared in the clouds, and she from a house with a stony courtyard. In her black cooking pot, goldfish crawl. not far from his grave, twin hummingbirds Fasten nests to the rim of a pond. Short strokes of water rise up and store darkness. They need me now, See how my parents turn up as it snows, Blanched petals of the lotus shredded and blown. They never knew such treasure in their lives: They reach for it now as it trembles on trees. ...

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