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Border Illusion GENE KELLER for Ben Sáenz Yo sóy, simple as bean oil. I know your words, but I’m tongue-tied to the border. When you say, “Define, without sentiment,” I hear the thunder of an A-minor chord. You summon palabras puras to surround this impurity, and words bow como Azucena the waitress. The words I summon all choke my throat. They fly, dust motes in the cosmos; yet on this day in Spring, I am God’s darling. Sóy, simple as bean oil. Look into my bowl. Shake. Ripple. Shimmer. No border. ♦ ♦ ♦ ...

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