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93 The Far Reaches I pace the beach like a fly On a ribbon of syrup, Sensitive to air and sweetness. If I were an ancient Greek, I’d be wearing armor against The warrior-god Memory. The wind, which was easy, Like gentle Zephyrus That propelled Ulysses close Enough to home That he stood on the bow Smoothing his clothes And checking his reflection, Is now two or three winds. Sand-twisters, gold-flecked, Prove it. In a more Serious time, they could Have been the confounding North, South, and East Winds, freed when Ulysses’ Men opened a sack In which they expected gold. But I have no men, only A woman and three children. No Odysseys but indolence. No enemy, curse, Or fatal flaw beyond this love Of light, that travels Everywhere looking for me. ...

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