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Terror: A Riddle —after Walt Whitman Like air you seep into my body cavities and take up residence, open charge accounts, root, stalk, and flower a perfume of rush and drum, violet as sunset, a bruise over stitches. I walk, you walk. Then I run—if I'm lucky. Unlucky I lie in the bed or worse, too weak to rub the ice itch. God! Want nothing, says her voice so I do. Then you go away.You're through. 85 ...

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