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72 More Matter, Less Art As a sycamore on 104th makes plastic bags fettered to limbs into garments of muslin and wind, so have you filled me with holes. As a fox sparrow under a hedge behind a fence twits and prets and goes unnoticed, so have your small touches worked into my fourth ventricle an unspoken chorus I can’t call up and can’t forget. I forgot to tell you when you left how I swallowed you while we slept— not as in the throat, as in the bird, its unsung note. ...

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