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68 small fire in snow However arrogant I had to be to say something like, It’s what a poem is, I was, while you honed a beech branch end and with it clinically stabbed four hot dogs asking did I remember the ketchup. You didn’t trust me? No—certainly not enough to let me cook the franks, wrapped now in the bluish flames, skins splitting open, charring— for fear I might turn the meal, you said, taking the first, juice-spitting bite, into a metaphor, and you were hungry. ...

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