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61 Portland My shoes are soaked, my skin is damp. I like the smell of wet wool after we’ve stood in the rain trying to jump-start your car. Water collects at my hairline. I feel it beading on my forehead, a band of watery light. I’m made clean by it and hopeful. It’s hard not to smile, even though you’ll pay dearly for a new battery or starter and we’re running late for class, for work. But slowed down, I notice the swirling sky, how the dark branches of the trees drip with condensation, how the red leaves of the vine maple blow bravely over the asphalt. Later we’ll talk politics and sit laughing with friends, drinking coffee and feeling rich in this stretch of poverty. 62 The sleeves of my coat are almost dry. I feel the faint touch of pearls and diamonds threaded among the roots of my hair. ...

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