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10  [has been used to seed clouds]

They say the color of our dead skin matters. They say we get the help we need.

As Kids We Played on the Paths They Cut. It was a murder mystery.

But instead of a lot of suspects, there were a lot of psychic detectives.

One was just an alive arm. Just the arm was a being.

It took to me, and I wore it then, like a scarf.

 

13  [did not originate in the pools where it was found]

I'm going to say it's clouds. Or rain.
You'd be thinking
about the end of your life. Somewhat.
And also
the things you'd care about
would be different than the people you knew.
These are harder, I think.
It's just a feeling that we have--the desire to go deeper.
No, in fact, I often don't, and other people do.
I like to taste it first, to see.

Not by reputation.
It depends
on who's gauging it.

Medium.
Blank.
There is no term.

To keep it, to tame it.
It would believe it couldn't fly.

The granules
rest
on the feathers.

I don't think that could prevent it from flying,
but the feeling of the weight would stupefy it somehow.

 

16  [seals cracks]

Are there things that we ought to remember? This is still our question.

Headline, "the line at the head"
from which the world is made.
There are steps--
literally, stones.
Consider for example the pattern: Sunny Place.
The names are legible.

No one believes the amnesiac.
Her little story, gradually told.
It snowed. Children's voices
arrived, like a memory.
The gentle memory that precedes the annihilating memory.
"Were you always like that?"

Why is the house empty anyway?
No one thinks of it.


. . .


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