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217 helen TZAgoloff Cento Walking homeward I fraternize with shadows swoop in a flock across grass, see a stranger cry among speechless women beating their little ones. The star laughs from its rotting shroud on the old shore, lit by the moon. It won’t shift an inch. It won’t ache to touch. The silence unmoving, plunging past gravity, tipped back in the cup of my hand, boredom a poison with no antidote. There’s an old ache in my brain curled and tightened. What are we in the hands of the great God? Our needs are sores upon our nakedness waltzing together on pale tumbled blooms. Yet in my clumsiness I found a place. I ride on my own diminishing. I grow gray, adequate for survival, withstanding all knocks. Luck is something I do not understand. ...

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