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53 The Second of September I know this is not a poem. I know this child trying out her vowels is not our child. They are like a woman I saw in the mirror once. I hardly remember her, but I wrote her like a plume of smoke. She must be close, in some other house, some other life, nearby. What I mean is this is not the poem our life is. It breathes through the curtains. The second of September. I mean with you I am not lonely. ...

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