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38 Before the Last Day of Summer The corn dies in its parched bed and sends a thousand dried-up souls circling skyward. No one knows what will be left unfinished—the sheets, great white hearts pulsing on the line, a cup of coffee, forgotten turned cold. But finally, this: a manner of speaking, a tentative turn towards. And this shaft of moon breaking in, walls white-washed, empty, the window that looks past hills shouldering stars to the south, towards home— more solid, more sorrowful and my sister. She must be lonely, eyeing the scratched pans every night without love, each meal becoming an excursion into dying. In my own bed I hold onto you, my hand over your heart, quiet as wings ticking in the oak branches. I’ve done this for so long and all I know of love is confusion, the twisted bedcovers escaping me, retreating as if every touch is an animal turned loose with a will to run until it drops or finds the field does not go on forever. ...

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