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 n e G a T i V e s P a C e Where the body isn’t—that’s how dancers know me. sculptors bend their clay and steel against my emptiness. somehow, though i’m not giving it a thought, i nudge a shadow from a twist of bronze or change the way a breast and elbow size each other up. Writers like to wrap white space around their wit, but i’m not white, not bound or folded. i’m your zero with its circumference erased, an abandoned building once the building’s gone. Let’s say  a heavy childhood event has bent your life, shaped what you’ve become. now you find it never happened. nothing there at all. That’s me. ...

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