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112 Wrist-​ bracelet An​old​bracelet,​clawing​its​way​through​light, has​wombed​out​a​morning​episode:​my​niece with​hands,​nephew​with​time,​who​speak​an​aunt unpacified,​who​won’t​grow​old,​who​won’t let​out​her​hands​through​universe,​release her​bracelet-​ wrist,​unwind​her​wrinkling​star— and​this​black​hole​unwound,​this​skein​of​land that​man​could​walk​on​if​I’d​left​my​hand unpeopled​by​its​only​grain​of​sand— is​still​my​hand,​my​episode,​my​man. ...

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