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F O R T H E Y K N O W N O T W H AT T H E Y D O There are soldiers in mother’s hair and soldiers peeling the screen. Distracted? I am driven. I can’t stop this chattering with history hissing its heat. Grave raincoat-shouldered people with their own histories, bad histories, drink to their bitterness and chide us for our efforts. What is there other than I forget? I can’t read the papers, or your face on the phone. Give it up is the answer, is is the answer, aghast is the hair. The rain’s washed off most of our skin. How does it feel during a war? A silence stirs. 6 ...

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