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1 5 3 R H A P P I N E S S G R A C E S C H U L M A N is not a campfire but an occulting light, a field of fireflies that blink on-o√-on, the tree you planted whose apples fall to the ground half-rotten, half sweet, the street’s jackhammers that fall quiet at night, the black skimmer’s white underside, the life together, apart, together, the long marriage, oxymoronic in its dank joy. Under a half-moon quivering through sycamores, you held my body half the night as I lay in your arms, sometimes half-awake, 1 5 4 Y speculating, well, happy families are unalike. I choose you with your handicap, your half-mobility, not to mention your leisure in forsaking all others for the chance of our wholeness. I take you, my choice as certain as plankton on sand lights up and arcs to the stars. ...

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