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20 Ventriloquist on an Off-Day Tucked in felt cases, his quiet ones sleep the sleep of carved wood—he walks unknown parks and blocks. Just happy to be here, he says, bearing the city air: rainwater, soot. He doesn’t search for better ways to fool an audience or an oriole in summer weeds. No journey back for youth’s sea glass or the seven thumping castles of bachelordom— so much desire then he could taste a current scoring the air between him and the other bodies. The pull of it would recall his hand on a van der Graaf machine at school: each hair on end. It’s the same now except he leans into the charged fields with no designs on their end. And the arcing currents that will not dissipate beat all day beside his actual heart. ...

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