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S N O W G L O B E This house is older than the lilac trusses glistening in winter ice, older than the pack of Winstons on the wire chair, older than the chair as well as this glass of water holding water. Is it older? The house lurks under the sky, which has stood over it. A time when this patch was a field, deer maybe shat in it, grazed a few leaves from a sprig, now fallen. The house is covered in fresh snowfall, lovely in reflected mercury light, its weary glow damaging to the cardinal flirting between branches of a stalled ornamental maple. Where is my head in this data? All this indexical nomenclature. It’s not reassuring to know the names tonight, lousy and grigri and non. Just words to fill space older than a house, a bird, this glass and my hand. 180 ...

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