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C H A N A B L O C H Yom Kippur Our new clothes fool no one. A year of days. The fingernails keep growing, even in life. We are tight for the winter, brooding in this vat of used air. As if we could hatch some glory out of our sitting still. What shrinks inside us, these stones that rattle in our throats tell us only to go on getting older. But the eyes want, the fingers, the emptiness of the mouth wants something to speak to, some lost horn of a mouth with its unpredictable answers. On the eastern wall, the lions stand on end, raising their braided heads, their gold tongues whetted. 88 ❚ The 1970s ...

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