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60 Jasper Dear boy, it was you. You with me in the house. I don’t know if I understood it was dream or you were dead. Beautiful, happy, soft, white—the simple inadequacies I return to. I’m in France now, stink-face, and Monday you’ll be gone from me ten months. I gotta go, too, the car is leaving for the market. I’ll buy meat and bread and cheese— good, hearty stuff you’d have woofed, before you stopped. I came from the dream crying, like I am now, a faint sky lightened to the burden of another day. Before I woke and left you, you stood for me, still brave within your pain. You knew what I wanted— to take up your body 61 to mine, to walk holding, holding, holding tight, until we reached the living room, where your mother waited just for us. ...

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