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Sudden light.

Yes, it was a struggle on the roof today working, the sun struck me

like an idea or an idealistic lover, it was this--I could understand it as fiction, how

everything fails on the page and then: to walk inside it, to become the miracle discussed (like some cactus--this

barrel my past kept me in) to repeatedly murder,

to manufacture the self. It was just this that kept me alive. Let me tell you of

the waves. It was like Hercules. (The eucalyptus was euphemistic, in a mystical

smethering aroma it had me by the throat or the loins) it was vacuous, prominent. As of a little girl escaping into the paintings is to enter the entourage of women, wooden fields, fields in love. Mostly it was beautiful, momentous. It was the miracle I was

getting to-- The point, you know, like diamonds under light, in seizures, shifting

I left behind all hues of color which reminded me of crimes or punishments, things

I haven't yet named-- This ukulele was shifting it was on fire in the cellar my papa was

remotely aware of the danger like a ballet it was not discussed.
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Author:Cory, Cynthia Jay
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:May 1, 1993
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