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[26] D U S K Y This time I walk it off in the mall. The slit of light, the eyes, the lip. I study sandals under glass, pearls harvested like fruit, a veil white as salt. The rats came out at night, shapes rippling like the coalman’s belly in the fun-house mirror. His feral hand gripped mine and I froze. O little girl, I love you singing to the pigeons and the peonies overrun with ants. Afraid of stairs, the everlasting dark stars fall from. When he lifts you up, go limp as a rabbit in the black pot that held your sister for the photo. Think of the Monarch skimming the pasture, landing on the honey-colored cow. ...

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