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Snow.
- University of Georgia Press
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238 f r o m w e ’ r e l a u g h i n g a t t h e d a m a g e Snow. The hatband tight around my head. and I have no hat on. We’re playing out in the snow, feeling no distance or time anywhere. Chives, we’re chives lying here in sour cream, the hollow leaves of an onion. That man inside there could cure himself by looking in our faces. All this water, slowed and almost stopped. One line to the next, hold your breath no longer than that, very calm, and filling quietly and quickly like a bucket with a garden hose in it under the waterlevel. Those times, the dead open their eyes in the ground thinking now I remember, yeah, snow. ...