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—10 Direction of Fall And then this ruined sky again. Memory came like migratory birds calling reaper, reaper, reaper, hungry ghosts threshing distance at the extremity of private sound: whatever wandering makes sing. Memory came to fragments, then composed itself, the endless sequence of silver-dollar days came down in April hail. Clouds are fools in whiteface, gone gray with their heavy freight of rain; Florida falls into mud, leaving behind flood warnings, hurricanes, watch for small tornadoes Late landscape wears its past as scars, suffering from too much weather, the many weathers we’ve had. (This body is almost mine, but sleep won’t take me back.) The sound of wind welcomed me, wind’s indecisive, noncommittal wing invited me, incited me to part-recited theories of the half-correct, starting with the names of stars, lessons we don’t tell the music: myths abound in me, I woke baroque and unafraid. shepherd text-2.indd 10 11/22/10 2:07 PM ...

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