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60 Onslaught in the Upper Western Hemisphere If this is not so, who can prove me false And reduce my words to nothing? —Job 24:25 Yesterday, a strong gust of wind Blew through a rack of swollen cattle Inside the butcher’s shop And carried downstream An entire school of fish Upside down, near the surface of the lake. Today, air was finding its way home When the first tender drops of rain fell. Earth, again, mistook everything for blood And moon was not allowed to appear. Instead, a surrogate life Carried us through the remaining hours. Please, do not believe it all flashes before your eyes: “Hey, it happened just like this in a dream once, While father’s ghost floated close to the ceiling.” No, that’s not the way it happens at all. It is more like finding one’s self Alone, midway through a sentence Knowing once a period evolves, That will mean the end Of thought as we presently know it. Yes—corridors, and an intricate sense or two— That’s the way it happens, As if a glint of sun, bouncing Off a butcher’s shiny new blade. ...

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