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Men from the women I didn’t know there were as many lines down in a canyon as across. The memory of my parents’ poverty when I was young – the red rims of their coffee cups. But they didn’t pick anything up from off the ground. The broom at the cloth door in the morning to wake me, coughs of generations all night long and summer fixed to gossip. I wanted at the very least to find less possible, or to thank everyone for what they did for me. To separate the men from the women and without counterpart, or better, without anniversary – to sit and smoke ’til I’m dizzy. You taught me that if someone compliments your pinkie-ring, you should give it away. That a dog’s voice at night aims a line of cottonwoods to chase home. 54 ...

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