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39 Only Hat My sadness has the texture of a dime store balloon; when I slide my hand across it, I get no pleasure from it. My sadness has no merit whatsoever. My sadness is a pose I cannot hold a moment longer, but I must because I am in yoga class where this pose in particular would be impossible to do had I understood it in advance, yet when fed instructions bit by bit while bending back . . . I can believe I just might get the hands. My sadness stems from a bottomless blame. It knows that it doesn’t matter, does it, if the reason is legitimate. My sadness is lonelier the longer I sit with it. My sadness comes back to me; it is all my own. My sadness has three corners, three corners has my hat. I have chosen this, my sadness, over all available hats. Firemen hats and nurses’ hats, telephone line repairmen hats. Military, ski, and Napoleon’s only hat. ...

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