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Isaac Stern's Performance Here plants—gold and dry—rustle up green at sod's edge. Music roils in the room where I wait, my chest holding even at the scar'sedge. Whatever chancesI took paid off and now I have only the rest of my life to consider. Once it was a globe, an ocean to cross, at least a desert— now a rivulet,or a blowhole. "I remember it waslike a story," Rampal said on the radio. "He told you the Beethoven concerto." I am telling youcancer. I am telling you like moisture at soil's edge after winter,or the bulb of the amaryllis you brought raising stem after stem from cork dirt, one hybrid flower after another unfurling for hours, each copper petal opening its throat so slowly, each shudder of tone—mahogany, coral, bloodan ache, orgasm, agony,life. 7 This page intentionally left blank ...

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