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—74 Kings Go Forth From here it looks like forgiveness, the possibility of a man: himself a meadow I traverse by sight, by feel, hand over hand across the green of him, eyelight by eyelight until I take him all in. Or is it just the front yard again, azaleas, hot pepper plants, and a stand of pampas grass at the border, sweet basil that’s finally given up? He can’t be taken in, or not by me, I lay myself beside him to be almost so verdant. The wild lantana I uprooted he replanted, it’s flowering for the second time this year; the adjacent anthill thrums with its private business. The ants don’t interfere with the numerous small blooms, some almost pink, some unqualifiedly white; ants don’t distinguish between ornament and weed. A field of things that can be touched but never owned, occasional grackles rifling through the undergrowth, or another’s body, for example, his hair tangled in my fingers momentarily, each strand as separate as each digit returning to the hand, and the hand after a moment to my side. The figure always too consistent, but capable of raising the hand again, rising to meet another figure rising too, somewhat like these palmate leaves rising in an October breeze, yes, somewhat exactly like the leaves. shepherd text-2.indd 74 11/22/10 2:07 PM ...

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