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| 6 Fragments with Dusk in Them We were taught to count kestrels on wires like coins in our pockets. Whole years we recalled by color: that torch-year, tanager, fox, sandstone, sage. Droughts revealed the river’s former ways, oars wedged between boulders, a derailed boxcar, conductor’s leather cap. A recluse fell in love with certain shadows spilled across her cellar floor, and among the east’s first stars were the occasional words jeweling-up at dusk with junkyards, chrome hubcaps—as mirrors struck small skies across our bodies. ...

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