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The grain of the wood The grain of the wood tidemarks on the beach galaxies fingerprints The spark inside my ribcage leaping at your voice under my skin and away in the knuckley powder . . . The push or fly The push or fly of the snow here in the free woods Your letter last night —lost eight weeks in the prison anthrax rules— and who knows what push/fly at Avenal— “. . . mostly freezing weather and they don’t give you anything warm to wear . . .” at Avenal, if I could, I would nurse you . . . as I have, as you have me, spring weather. I would be I would be thick soft fleece around your shoulders your ill heart at Avenal new poems 31 ...

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