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61 Nothing Beyond, Nothing Below After Paul Klee Winter impresses blue on entablatures and façades, low sky’s wimples that let down snow. That morning on the way to school among the shouts and pushes, I lagged behind to cup snow in my hand— crisp and blue, to feel it singe deeper lines of love and life fate would never melt, its glare a gaze more blinding than the plain pages of my notebooks, more than vision could resist: my numb hands pressing eyes tight, nothing in or out. This same snow other kids would eat cupping it to their mouths to feel the clamp of its kiss. ...

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