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[58] L O N G A F T E R D A R K AT T H E C H U RC H C A R N I VA L I have an itching palm to situate the stars, to chart the cost and progress of a soul. Maybe this is how a widow wants to feel breaking the token clot of earth between her fingertips. As if the power had left it. The beach scene came right because we were expectant, still full of hopes. I am a child again, unable to explain the hole I am digging. Who moans? We bring to each other the same degree of trust we bring to ourselves. The hartebeest’s horns are shaped like a lyre. Do not tell me though I ask you where strawberries grow on the side of a cliff. Long after dark at the church carnival I am praying, predictable as cat’s-cradle. I keep looking up the moon’s sleeve. There is a sharp lull into new feeling being thrown back again into the sea. ...

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