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133 f r o m g o u r d s e e d a w i s h I love the microphone breath-flutter, the famousness of words, that keeps me up late and remote from a cigar-sweet closet under the stairs where an old man reads his Bible and hears the encores and turns out the overhead to nap, with applause so softened and made whole by the basement walls. Deep Sleep is his name, and just by not dying, he refreshes, as dawns have my life so rarely, though now less rarely. More often, he talks and walks me through the scripture of aching light, the way he’s hoped he could. ...

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