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20 t o s t e V e , a f t e r r e a D i n G T H E P Y R A M I D S O F M A L P I G H I Thesearehard times, friend. canhardly get the music in. oh, my blood’s keeping time, making its laps. it goes about, busy as thought, doing what it’s supposed to. it’s the old woman in me, full of spit and rumor, who sits and spins and stirs the same old pot. i may have my way with her yet. Brandy still pleases me, my gamblings. Where would we be without the dichotomy, the splits and double downs, the double helix we all play on, that mirror on the bedroom wall that will not let us in? yesterday a January thaw and i swear a metal rain tap-dancing on the roof. tinsel, remember it? tinsel. even the sound of it makes a little bell. how we drenched the tree with it, tossing those shreds of light from our fingertips, as if that small delight would save us from ourselves and the world. This morning frost found every lawn and leaf, glass and stem. stuck in the eye of every bird. even my single sock, fallen from the laundry basket. i won’t have it any other way—the frost, i mean, that it had beauty on its mind. i suppose we all could be singular colors, or perfectly bored in the circular. ah—even that shape a kidney likes to make. and all those egyptians inside! ...

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