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J A M E S K I M B R E L L The Trouble Now It has nothing to do with the clouds of the last sky, Or the rain of this one, or the storm-glazed Arrival in between, which made, for a moment, The world seem sudden, replete with all The dilapidated walls and window-lit alleys In the valley across Yong Island, this life disguised As the next. Nothing to do with the sound Of the ocean through my window, with the trunk Unpacked in the corner, with the salt smell Of this night, or the crickets that trailed me All the way from Virginia. It hardly seems relevant Now that the women at the top of the loose Stone steps speak a language I don’t half know. Even my radio, so adept at transmission, fluent And oblivious, bleats out the message—again You are here, again you understand so little. The 1990s ❚ 209 ...

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