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[32] A R M S Even your house knows her arms want to surround you: paintings slide to the floor. The piano tries to hide under the sofa. The aluminum siding turns blue. There are several accidents. Scorned, her arms grow long and longer until they reach across two counties, patriotic monuments, the tiger in the Potomac. The city darkens with her need. But you are not afraid. Not even when you hear her yellow fingers snapping in the garden to an old song, an old song, an old song. You who pity horses, in their loneliness born without arms, lift the needle and the mantra stops. Her arms shrivel back to where they came from. Then all is quiet in your own back yard. You take off your shoes and dance. Your holy hair flies up. ...

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