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42 Happy anniversary March 19, 2006 There is a war. This is a brand of minimalism: there are many wars. Whenever you are reading this, this is the case: people running and screaming and sharp things and dull pains. A softness of phantom limbs marching through the forest. Arms attached to legs, legs attached to dream. Whenever you are reading this, you may be killing, you may dead. I was thinking, I should mow the lawn, buy milk, stop the war. Let’s all add that to our lists: learn Spanish, meet Jesus, stop the war. All past lists and future lists, all notions of mind, all wonderings above the frost-wounded daffodils— will they make it, doctor, will they pull through?— should include this unsophisticated breath. There is my war in the now and your war in the then. Other things I can predict: snow, lava, vowels, the heat-seeking qualities of money. Stop. 43 Long enough to enter the cratered, the moon fields and marionette the dead, to wear them on your body as your body, as if you’ve reeled-in your shadow, as if you’re holding how you’ll be forgotten in your arms. Until the word empty whispers, I am full. Until the shadow fits. ...

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