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69 Winter, Ithaca Tonight I walk out into winter’s fingers stepping from one stone and onto another, the stones receding into darkness as I leave them. Smoke from a home fire roams the air. Snow comes. My shoulders go soft— two blades loosening into the spine— and for once I’m a witness, not a careless warrior, who watches the leaves as they turn and die, and Jon is leaving. Lynn is lying about her life, so I can’t help her. I’m miles away so I can’t hold her or hold her down. But what is the cold 70 compared to the fire? Where does the rage go? The road’s packed with snow. Black tea steams between my hands and I drink it down until it burns. ...


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