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46 Red Hills witH wHite cloud So small, you say, the objects that hold time and longing— a battered cigarette case or blusher, a wallet opening to a face you know, or knew—and how far you carry them, hidden, like the portable Ikons in Dzidzo’s vest pocket, Babcha’s purse. Even after you give up carrying your memories, you’ll remember.Your mind will open them like diptychs: on one side, an image of hills so close-up they look like lips, bare runnels in rust-colored ground like lips parting, pressing against the other side—across the hinge you thought you could snap shut by crossing an ocean—where the blue bowl of the sky holds a cloud like a rice grain, like an offering. ...

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