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36 Watershed In time my story will hinge on this host of conifers hissing on the banks every single movement of the night you can scarcely tell what century it is the river the pale sad faces from the past at an awkward angle the new moon staring out at the ribbon of road spilling downhill into a labyrinth as if to say you take all the decisive steps in your life as a result of slight inner adjustments of which you’re barely conscious the loud the soft that pitch of call among foliage swallowed up by a wavering shadow how to put one foot in front of the other what if it was just a twig in the field the fog the hours on the walls streaming down the fort the grey rigid uniform the props the ghost in me waiting for the candles to be lit: Who’s there? Stand and unfold yourself. ...

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