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of watery car lights across the child’s white quilt we slept under and on top of, that February . . . The rude walnut smell of the hibernation nest. Sleeping I thought If there was a hole through you and a hole through me they’d take the same peg or needle and thread us both through the first station and there we’d lean and listen and listen . . . Night Lake He must have been one or two, I was five, my brother Johnny’s cock floated like a rose of soap in the tub; it had the faint, light rock of the boat you carry in you when you’re on land again at the end of the day . . . Oh all I’ve never gotten written down! On paper, on my skin. Oh navy blue lake that I want to drink to the bottom. And you, Barrie, what can I give you to drink? Not the flask of ourselves, we already have that. The solitude drink in the kerosene lamplight at the caravan table . . . the river at wolf 195 ...

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