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119 Parable of Greece, Grasshopper, Time Everything tumbles forward end-over-end like a stone down a mountain. He keeps waking up (it’s a pinprick, like the mosquito that bit him on the neck just now) and then forgetting again. Just now, for instance, his wife walks in the door from washing her bathing suit and gives a little shriek: a very large grasshopper has bounced through the open door and crouches on the floor near the computer cord, about to leap. “Get out! Get out! You stupid grasshopper, i’m going to have to kill you,” she whispers, trying not to disturb him as he writes, urging the grasshopper toward the door with a flyswatter. one thing, then another. Now, for instance, his brother is at the door, come to take them dancing at the port. He has to stop writing this. His wife says, “Rob says you have to come right now.” And now, for instance, he comes back years later to revise this poem, and wonders if he should take out words that no longer apply, such as “his wife.” Here’s what gets him: how it never stops, world after world, how he keeps falling through. ...

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