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My mother and her father, in this blue egg. This egg, our young, gone before us: who will brood over them? Who will make a good roof over them. The Under Voice I saw streaming up out of the sidewalk the homeless women and men the East side of Broadway fruit and flowers and bourbon the homeless men like dull knives gray-lipped the homeless women connected to no one streaming no one to no one more like light than like people, blue neon, blue the most fugitive of all the colors Then I looked and saw our bodies not near but not far out, lying together, our whiteness And the under voice said, Stars you are mine, you have always been mine; I remember the minute on the birth table when you were born, I riding with my feet up in the wide silver-blue stirrups, I came and came and came, little baby and woman, where were you taking me? Everyone else may leave you, I will never leave you, fugitive. Come Akhmatova A homeless woman with harsh white hair stands outside my Chinese-red door the river at wolf 203 ...

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