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239 riChArD Deming Annus Mirabilis One day when there is no breath, thus no longer song no incantatory, forgiving algebra for the open window and the wind, and the wasps stirring along the sill in late March. Not cinder, not smoke, and what all else that will not be there. No more. Is it enough, then to glimpse another’s reflection in a picture window backed by night, lit by Chilean wine and soft voices? The melon’s syrup slicks someone’s cheek; a napkin thick with the scent of currants and folded in thirds falls to the floor. Outside, the lawn furniture levitates above the sleepy eyes of mute animals led astray. No other world but this. This. ...

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