The Exile
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30 The Exile If you are the country then I am a prisoner cast into exile making my way to our shore home in dreams then waking in the north where stone drives me mad. Now the world is a free thing: formless and stark. Tin cans everywhere. Rain filling the tin then spilling over. There are no names for this— the charge of a river flooding the embers shaking free roots of the oldest trees. Today my grief turned to a dream—a desire for home. The desire filled me. 31 The dream itself was its own kind of paradise— false but perfect bearing the details of our wild life, the spectral lines of a world wrung dry. I could have waded forever in the familiar dark but I chose flight— or succumbed to its leanness— and left you in the river. Then I leapt into lightning. ...


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