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H E AT H E R M C H U G H Understanding Bugging the upstairs parlor where they gather I can hear teeth rattle in glass, the waver of voices under water, no olives. I can hear oranges hiss on the women’s lips, and the quick drawn little blues, the breath of lighters. Smoke makes a soft white sound. The wall trembles like a tympanum. All at once, too near in the dark beneath the floor some cellar presenceroot, footmakes it move. My bones crawl together from corners. My ears curl back to my skull. I am in time, almost: a hand’s upon a wrist. It’s mine. Cool The air no longer glues to my skin. Commotion, that slow burn, is far gone. The 1970s ❚ 65 It is late summer, late afternoon; between this dayroom and the passion of dogs and horns a hundred years have intervened, a single shade of stripe and sun, of swell and sink. In the garden are no small shaking bells, no verdure, syrups, purple vibes, no humming promises, no rings. The empty garden is an attitude of rocks, and I have made my peace with the planted stone. Already I lie in the box of my house and love you for leaving me free of all sweetness and sting. 66 ❚ The 1970s ...

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