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The Emergency Chair Ghosts of choices, inner immigrants, longshots – one of you sit there, and one of you here. The extent to which we’re bound, no one believes it. And if there are to be wrecks redeeming life’s epic – local life to great life – I’d suffer those haunters. Ghost-mothers. Common mothers. As of Prussian-blue snot baby Jesuses. Slapping them as they shape me. I couldn’t wait for the man to call my name so I wouldn’t step forward. If you think of the chair as threshold of some other element – the stone tight in the plum, just whimpering volumes and people not knowing one another. All doors shut to error, or irony carried over time – what I came for, one after the other. 39 ...

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