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[10] APOLOGy For the minutes, hours, days that once, with a girlish yearning, i wanted back. For the slap in the car when you were two. For — trusting your safe return — not missing you. For trusting the gods. For my second-rate circumspection; for trusting the odds. For the tremor of heat in the small of your hand in mine — a fear of strangers, of shadows, the dark. My little bank swallow, i called you. For this city of sand banks and sound-proof walls. For teaching you to love the same: the thief and the devout. For teaching you not to shout. For us still uncovering your terror — layer by layer. For this sputtering sound of real prayer. ...

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