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 43 Apogee Jet exhaust streams the sky; smoke rises from cigarettes just outside of passageways ; the few remaining steel mills pour smoke into the air in the only refuge of microscopic particles. Indoors, nothing remains but domesticity. Only poems in my thirty-second year could cure that peculiar silence where the sound of children is like the sound that smoke makes when clinging to curtains. I see no footprints leading back to my youth like aphorisms on wooden placards, the glistening plate an apogee to the heart. In a time when the lack of footsteps make up a speech all their own, the “no” and “yes” ambivalently the same, movies can make it all seem like a wish for more wishes in the filmy residue of what the heart believes it wants. ...

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