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54 Northern Flicker It takes on this plasticity and bends but might not break, I’m not sure. She wants me to take what I was out to the back with the gas can, while the children are sleeping, and she (another woman) sees it all laid out before her since it is just one thing, which is what she prefers to think of. And finally the bird, mimicking the tree enough he owns it in a sense but different enough that he is beyond us—that he can go just when we find ourselves mixing them up and his eye is the eye we once mentioned, severed and dropped because it was used at that point, and stood there as brilliant and vacuous and moving as a prism. Lately then the breath is lost. Every umbrella we gave to the closet resembled a weapon so what is it doing with them? Why doesn’t it rain? ...


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