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What can I put that won’t follow
or stick: to the white
we rely on for whiteness, for dawn:
what we must. The sun
to blind us enough, to help us go on.
It’s always: in motion
the question burning its mark as
it goes: what are these
words. What is their relationship
to light. What do I even
remember about my life. I open
a book at night: copy a line
again. It copies my tone: dares me
that white on its face
demands: that I write it, that I
too come undone
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.