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Part I After Elegies Almost two years now I’ve been sleeping, a hand on a table that was in a kitchen. Five or six times you have come by the window; as if I’d been on a bus sleeping through the Northwest, waking up, seeing old villages pass in your face, sleeping. A doctor and his wife, a doctor too, are in the kitchen area, wide awake. We notice things differently: a child’s handprint in a clay plate, a geranium, aluminum balconies rail to rail, the car horns of a wedding, blurs of children in white. LIFE shots of other children. Fire to paper; black faces, judge faces, Asian faces; flat earth your face fern coal ‘Autumn Day’ Who has no house now will not build him one . . . Will waken, read, and write long letters . . . —Rilke, ‘Autumn Day’ The house in the air is rising, not settling between any trees. ordinary things 103 ...

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