restricted access Anger
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50 Anger You bought me a Frisbee last summer, lurid pink smelling too new in its dollar-store plastic. I put it under a pile of mail I would purposely forget to open. Ask me: what became of that summer? Did we ever walk to the street, defiant of cars, throwing that Frisbee pinkly in afternoons that went on all evening? We spent that summer at shotgun ends of the house, windows shut despite dull heat and the smell of dollar-store plastic rising from that heap of unopened mail in all-pink evenings. I try, but can’t forget these things. ...

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