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Equation I open the phone book, and look for my adolescence. How easy the past is— Alphabetized, its picture taken, It leans in the doorway, it fits in the back pocket. The crime is invisible, But it's there. Why else would I feel so guilty? Why else would that one sorrow still walk through my sleep, Looking away, dressed in its best suit? I touch my palm. I touch it again and again. I leave no fingerprint. I find no white scar. It must have been something else, Something enormous, something too big to see. 129 ...

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