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48 on meetinG The Seventh Father Of The House When the child hears it, he imagines first a swivel then a landing of leaves, the way a ghost hurls a still mass into a room, leaving it to settle among the living. He imagines a Norwegian loneliness as the echo of a heavy boot lifting. imagines hunger. Whining. The infinitesimal plea disguised as pleasure. Not the way a boy, but an aging man groans for the wing-beat of long legs locking and unlocking the Lapland. Not the boy who wakes to find he has erupted, but the echo of the boy’s eruption entering room after room after room. The swivel of himself steeping the draft of intrusion. The landed leaves rising up again— corporeal, bodies without bodies, hurling themselves onto the living. ...

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