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No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world.
All types of little faces,
the faces are everywhere,
the way every imperceptible
atom means a face, and all
sub-atomics, faces, faces filling
arenas, fixed on warm, lighted
centers: just where your dead
and mine ought to sit: in one stadium
they watch and interpret, applaud
each among us our obvious ends,
and applaud us and flak
our backs as we pattern into them and watch
the rest: formless heroes, living
daily against their deaths, balling
modest hope: one wolf: chained let it
pace, hackle and whimper, all through
rage and rising water; apologize
like an angry god; it cannot leave.
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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.