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One of the Lesser Epics Love doesn’t need this yellowed sodium lamp humming on the roadside winter’s five o’clock to find the way when I am clambering myself out of the garish hells which I’ve domesticated, assorted underworlds in which I’ve domiciled my monopolies of suffering, memory’s scares and stall tactics: love finds the way by smell or sound of you, touch of an index finger on your freckled forearm, remembering skin, every quirk of asphalt, tarmac, macadam leads back to you, the light as it came upon us all afterthought. I’ve given every person place and thing your name, you answer to them willingly. Then we become the sunlight (we’ve come from that far away), scattered so widely, as easily dispersed. Surely someone will be saved. 100 Shepherd PG:Layout 1 12/20/06 5:27 PM Page 100 ...

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