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AGAINST LOSS For years I hoped the stars splashed on blackness would wrestle themselvesinto shapes; envied Scheherazade dragging desire like a fish-hook through the dark. For wasn't the point that stories, like love, are spelled out on the skin against loss? A man was left a widower with one daughter . . . Once, it is told, there was a King . . . Aflocl{ of sheep was standing in a field . . . When in Italy, and sixteen, I threw my coins in with the rest, wasn't I wanting that gesture to pull me down to a world with others, where everything shines? And nights when the windows are shut against night, isn't it just like lacquer sprinkled with gold, the way an old loneliness follows you into sleep and the stories come? 60 ...

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