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[59] O N H E A R I N G A L E C T U R E O N S TA R S There are too many of them. They shrink the earth to a town. I am turned into an ant on the sidewalk, afraid of a shoe. They destroy my God, too. Who is left to hear, to count every hair, every sparrow? The houselights flood. Outside, the sun’s a hollow hand conning my skin back to life. I scan the sky, no stars in sight. Door to door I carry old wines in a suitcase, my window on Sinai smashed by an astronomer. ...

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