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A N O L D WA R We mass, so many of us old, with the old confusions of sex and swarm, thrust and sting. But we’re not wasps or bees. Try meteors. Mom! you screech, ducking head-under-arms. Impotence is not in any animal’s genes, it has to be earned. Forget the rockets’ red glare you so dearly love and tear down that bright banner blood. We can’t be moths attracted by light, we must—boy—chew at the fuse. 27 ...

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