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59 The Life of the Word On the side of the bed where you slept books are piling up. When I can’t sleep, I reach out and grab whatever comes to hand, old newspapers, articles I saved unread from so many sad sick Sundays. It’s no use, words are still seeping into each other. I keep a lined pad, pens, just in case. Last night I picked one up as one picks up a foreign object on a familiar street and miraculously the word returned, the body of the work woke to the surge of idea in the middle of the night. There was no need to sneak out for fear of disturbing you, no need to suppress the urge to pound you awake. In this writing outside of dream and drugs and mourning, God assures me there is enough blood on my hands, it is time to confess. It is time to say I need, I want, I will never forget you. I will reinvent you the way I remember my parents and the childhood years of our children and the betrayals of friends. I will dive down into lies so deep the truth of what I mean to say will return in time to forgive me. ...

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