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22 Nausikaa And we live far apart by ourselves in the wash of the great sea At the utter end, nor do any other people mix with us —vi. 204–205 Nothing happens here, but it might: red bandannas group the men near the door, and heat hangs around the metal baskets chiming together as people bump past holding their week in sheets. Nothing happens, but nests of hair wind hatched shadows around the legs of a linoleum table where there is a stack of infant undershirts, clean slices of bread on wine-blue pants. A man stammers no watch, holds his bare wrist to me. Here. Autumn jackets smack and smack one porthole. Two girls are chasing each other around their mother’s legs and tumble into ribs of light folded within a blanket. Through the window’s fluorescence, little white handprints appear. Cars could be swans in an olive grove—but the streetlamps look nothing like trees, these cars are not birds, and the window rips with morning like a sheet of aluminum foil. We give ourselves to the current of machines and wait together under three TVs: in each, the same woman is making herself cry. ...

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