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75 Not the Quick Not the icicle, air-splitting root. Not the cavern where stalactites thumb. Not these, slow, since slow is also close, but the sudden, static sparks in a sweater that my wife strips off, the bedroom dark. The home is larger than the house. Or those same tats of electricity I see, kneeling on the stairs this morning, before dawn, rushing through the dog’s fur behind my hand. So quick is always far, the caribou that flock and run inside the shadow of the helicopter blades. I’ve been told my nerves snap a charge from tendril across synapse. I believe these things therefore unseen, as if each question I have asked and do not know— droplet, ash— turns in time to this jangling. ...

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