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36 ghazal in which end word repetition is implied The phone call comes at midnight. The man walks outside weeping. Making tea the next morning he sees through puffed eyelids his discordant amblings in the snow. How elliptical they are! As if some drunk made them, or a stumbling injured animal. For a while—and perhaps this is what the elders meant by grace—he can even imagine he was not their maker. Who puts on boots and shuffles through a dusting, falls to the ground, flails his arms and legs? Does not each day grant such meager detachment? As if angels grab us underarm and briefly lift. Just before the tea cools to the precise temperature of a tear, and the cup, warm, weighs heavy in the hand. ...

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