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19 This month, Sarah is down and frequent in the backyard. We make a point of eating together. She’s annoyed I called Connecticut a dead sea-creature, mad I said her big cousin is easier than making babies and her children should be terrified or else content to house their unknown hostility until it localizes as stomach cancer. What’s crazy is how a family is its own school of painting, how in mine the men carve the hedges and the women carve their dresses and when they get together their favorite color is skin. It’s obvious that these are white houses and those are white rocks and there is the graveyard we enjoy because it comforts us, because it hides death but insists death is not hidden from us and one day we’ll lie around each other. Sarah, you say you think about this. So then, consider me in the act of bringing a thing over to you. I’m waiting by the row that fronts our street, where I’m sure this is the light we can practice with. And that man in the next lot, he is our uncle, who grew tall, and has stood for the decade since he gave up the church and became the hoop at the end of the driveway. POEM OF MY HOPE ...

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