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THE CHILDREN In three directions are two storms. I instruct the edges of my hands to become irises, to shatter in that way, in three directions. There's nothing behind me. Viols claw beneath our fences at the elevation of sound to pure unsanctity, the moment of simultaneity: airplanes seeming to collide and not colliding, the crow alighting in the manner of a seabird, the carbomb a more than momentary poppy. The bad total of death points one direction. It moves at the edge of my hand at the memorial service, viols useless now laid across theirbreasts, the attitude of submission. I was eating dinner in a tall room. I was the third guest. I felt a tightening in my asshole, and the yellow wine turned to red, turned to your hand on another's woven onto tapestry. How the month ofJune became our sons, so many bridges for one river, was the story always delighted you. 38 The carbomb was faster. Simultaneous with the iris the viol shatters in three directions. Everything I have taken claws helplessly at sunlight that won't defend itself. The red one is the poppy. 39 ...

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