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34 Begging Bowl Each night the bowl of our bodies is emptied, and as we wake it begs to be filled: resin of desire, basin of water into which we cup our hands and drink and wash, only to grow thirsty and dirty again: fingers soiled and stained, cherry’s smudge, grape’s fleshy pulp, so similar to a tongue reaching after language, after a sound equal to this empty bowl, this grieving bowl, this body we have faith will wake tomorrow. ...

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