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couldn’t place the bed in the room, or where the room was when I closed my eyes This is the same old knife my knife I know it as well as I know my own mouth It will be lying there on the desk if I open my eyes I will know the room very well there will be the little thrown-out globe of blood we left and every molecule of every object here will swell with life. And someone will be at the door. Seeing L’Atalante (Directed by Jean Vigo, 1934) A woman sits at her worktable, reading stories, thinking of all the true stories she’d never tell out of love, and shame, root fear: broken glass, torn walls. Reading stories about rivers (she is the river), rafts crossing over, father, husband, lover, her own sons. The river sings; he has always thought that. Stories. The stories cross over. On the raft he makes a shelter for her, fills a glass (sees her trembling, clear), tries to sleep. Hours, hours, is he sleeping or swimming. Save her, save them, leave them alone, his voice beats, his lungs, his heart, his arms beat, beat, so slowly, the wavering dark and the dark is smiling, wanting their smile, their faces for its own. 112 door in the mountain ...

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