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37 Dragging the Lake Who knows what we will find or what we will become when we find it? Something beyond the pale of the smooth cypress stump where fathers lie doubled over in the mud?Who knows what the next bump will stir up? The shore that stands afraid of boney fingers that tug the line and pull it under? The word hope, the thought of it, is too melodramatic. Who’s to say we don’t get stuck in the middle, or wish for something else: perhaps a gut that can take the big water, the scrim, the jib, the hook, the net, the anchor? ...

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