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‹58› His Speed and Strength His speed and strength, which is the strength of ten years, races me home from the pool. First I am ahead, Niké, on my bicycle, no hands, and the Times crossword tucked in my rack, then he is ahead, the Green Hornet, buzzing up Witherspoon, flashing around the corner to Nassau Street. At noon sharp he demonstrated his neat one-and-a-half flips off the board: Oh, brave. Did you see me, he wanted to know. And I doing my backstroke laps was Juno Oceanus, then for a while I watched some black and white boys wrestling and joking, teammates, wet plums and peaches touching each other as if it is not necessary to make hate, as if Whitman was right and there is no death. A big wind at our backs, it is lovely, the maple boughs ride up and down like ships. Do you mind if I take off, he says. I’ll catch you later, see you, I shout and wave, as he peels away, pedalling hard, rocket and pilot. ...

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