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turns my hand over in hers, she says, At least we had July. Never, never, and she is gray, transparent, fragile, made of dusty glass, Gilbey’s Gin, the Glass Flowers . . . Where Do You Look for Me? in memory of James L. White They think because I am dead now I am no longer twigs on the ground, stones or bits of stone in the wall. That I was just something good on a plate for them to eat. That I have no one. Oh my darling, where do you look for me? Documentary: AIDS Support Group White paper masks over their mouths —a piano player; an artist; the others I don’t know. A hot light bulb, the childhood smell of a Magic Lantern. The artist shows a slide: closeup cracks like rivers in the leather of an armchair. growing darkness, growing light 233 “We learned before this to read the cracks of fever, at nine, and one, and five,” the artist says. The flat deflection of the piano player’s eyes. Poem with Words by Thornton Dial Day by day you are being drawn through the TV’s violet needle’s eye. Luminous is the hope you have been content with. The shaman breaks the wrist of his countryman to get him to talk. The film crew walk around at the edge. A guru beams in his jazz musician’s shades. Luminous is the hope you have been content with. —Graveyard traveler, I am coming in. A Bit of Rice A bit of rice in a string bag: the rice spills, we have to sweep it up . . . What will be left here when you die? Not the rice not the tea left somewhere when the monk 234 door in the mountain ...

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