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What’s Left Only the murmur of gathering snow, and, far off, the squeal of teeth shearing steel, and the ashy scent of solder riding the air; only the blue-hooded crow, scolding from an archway at us below; only the thin-lipped solstice sun, glancing anxiously across your shoulder as you turn away; only your voice, too faint for an echo: How fine you are! Only turnstile, platform, tracks seaming sudden fractures in the earth; only this seat astride my suitcase, train hastening on. 38 ...

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