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TRYING TO BEGIN / Robert Mezey Here is a fellow sitting at a table, ankles crossed and hands folded, the most ordinary of mornings and absolutely nothing to do. And slowly, neither awake nor asleep, he starts to feel he must have been lost a long time in the cells of paper, a faint tinkle of dust coming back to life in the world of the ear. The coffee is cold; yet always the same white ground and the same ghostly figures weaving toward a distant light, and lines groping for some opening in the crushed wall, and lines that glisten like the snail's whereabouts down to this wet sheaf that might just have arrived, so heavy and fresh, from the wheat farmers of some region of ice and cloud. Or maybe just a layer of sodden leaves left on the doorstep by the nightlong rain. 30 ¦ The Missouri Review ...


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