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The weather in my heart, the articulate region where I live, the map of the rain.

The heart in my bones is traveling from somewhere else, unattached to the present. I have only to breathe this air to attract myself, but it's not enough; it's merely an outline for mistakes I've made. This makes the weather my parent, I am larger than my body and probably more commanding, although the weather doesn't seem to listen, and Christ once said, "Whosoever knoweth where the wind cometh and where it goeth, so it is with the coming of the Lord." When I die, I hope I become the wind going into the wind dissolving into moist weather, my tears, my many small gestures offering themselves as humble unthought-of answers.
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Author:Smiddy, Nina
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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