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The Old Causes In the cool future, one puts off her dress by a window and another makes the choice between inhabiting and admiring. We don't live long enough to outlast history. We shall not love with our bodies again except in the coronal streets of paintings, the unjust happiness of the ratty voyeur for ones so terribly thin now without the little flags of their clothes. Great tyrants understood the flesh and our nostalgia for it. The glory of the rainy square The glory of oblique pillars of sunlight on the tousled hairs of a bed The glory of not taking you in my arms now but letting the paradise of the next day waken to find you already there teaching me to live with no purpose and the endless rain better than heaven. I dream of the deprived Utopias that may yet arrive. I see myself repeating a kind of courtship. There is a messy apartment brightened here and there by the subjective icons of a woman's life before I knew her. Somehow, I translate all that into the struggle and final triumph 56 of all of the people shouting one name, and then it is my right to go to bed with her. In the cool future, apartments and unfeeling icons will face each other across our bodies. We shall count for very little or I shall have learned to make the right choice, tendering the little flags of her clothes between my hands like a birthplace or the silhouette of my mother on the broken glass of the apartment she died in crowned with the future's coronal of lamplight. 57 ...


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