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31 Upon Looking Down onto the Top of Your Head Where the Hair Has Gone White Deep snows drape themselves like the long-loved, leg thrown over leg, arm across breast, hand wandering the tunnels mink carve along the length of the river where the ice is fluorescent and the last minutes of light are plum, then crabapple, little warmth from this distant fire burning its way west to a place of remembrance, of indwelling, of turning into. ...

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