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[9] W I N D Y C I T Y I consider alternatives to never playing the piano, to never making it to the Louvre. I consider black ribbons in my hair for the downhill skier, for the amaranthine village overstocked with doves. Before this very pool— finding my voice, believing in my knees, the cushion on the floor, in the song on the roof and the windy noise of cars— I am turning into leaves. How deep is this pool? Endless as the mornings of the world. What do I touch there? A hand. A root system. ...

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