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. . . who’d swallowed your gaze, the very
your heart, there
where it refracted, once, within the
wet rippling of that
reproachable mirror. wanted your
hands back, didn’t you, the pressure your
fingers exerted in
molding earth to the
radiant anatomy. twirled spoons, tapped
shadows, attempted to wean from the
rock those lost
sonorities. were little more, now, than the
residue of that chimeric lustre, the
backwash of what, in
its reflections, had long since
dissolved. bone of your bone, breath of your
breath, how will you recognize your-
self now that that
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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.