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IN YOUR HANDS I begin to grow extravagant, like kudzu, that rank, green weed devouring house after house in the South— towards midday, the roof tiles start to throw a wavering light back towards the sun, and roads begin to soften, darken, taking your peregrine tongue, your legs, your eyes, home to shuttered windows, to the cool rooms that invent themselves slowly into life. 22 ...

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