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75 | Hollow Ground The pots of frozen plants outside, a gray sky ignored for something that moves in difficult patterns as I wonder where my father went. I call my mother who lives alone and my sister answers, tells me she is sleeping and everything is okay. I want to believe it but the years of staying away have changed the road across the desert and I remain, tracing images of duration as long as I can, the people on the other side of memory coming and going, lying down and lying to their children. Once, as a boy, I saw a large desert turtle cross the dirt road and I paused, watched it take forever to move, its huge head dusty and brown, the enormous shell covered with intricate symbols that told me I was standing on the wrong earth. I should have been over there, where the voices in the mountain announce the turtle is welcome, the slow creature given a place to remove the weight off its back. ...

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