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In interiors by night-light, and by our own
admission, we levitate.
It is our birthright. Suppose the cargo was brought
for our welfare: a kind
of instruction toward ill, produce
we could not afford.
An attempt to recover the economy
thoughts about the climate and the waste
of our prose.
There were trees the storm had reserved,
fathers unmannered at the effort.
Our theater confused the gods.
We observed the trees. We never knew the fluttering
made them distinct.
Ricardo Alberto Maldonado was
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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.