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77 Nocturne 2006 I Owls call from the hollows. This is the sound of the moon. Light shattering like glass across the night. Sky filled with ghosts. They have traveled far. This room holds their voices like a box of cracked bones. I remember how to write my name in a swirl of Arabic. It is a secret. Sound, like the sound of my name in the halls where I walked through moonlight, stepping over soldiers facing Mecca. The faces of the tortured are 78 familiar. Beneath hoods, a voice I recognize. A muscled thigh, feet in shackles, buttocks and kneecaps. Skin smelling of sweat and urine. II A man is named for a prophet. He calls for him in the darkness. Naked and cold in a cage, his middle name is God. ...

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