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Mariko
Kitakubo
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cutting my foot
on a tree-root
I felt
the desolation of Descartes
slowly slide into me
we won't know
if it's benign
till we operate--
I'm nodding as if
this isn't about me
high up
in the bare tree
winter has come
bringing with it
letters for the deceased
the sounds
of a cat grooming itself
in Tunisia
all the cobble-stones
are on fire with sunset
how small
I really am
here between
potato field
and the wide sky
maybe it's better
not to know the depth
of her wounds--
tranquilly I ask
how many sugar lumps?
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