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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Saturday, July 28, 2012

The towers fall. A baby wakes, but she isn’t a baby. She’s just small, and no longer occupies your insides. Meanwhile, there’s a line around the block For the store with the glowing apple. Or is it a hotel? It’s not a call to arms. We’re trying to reduce the damage. In the article about integration, the white child is named Prairie. She is the only one in focus. Some people are light, your daughter says, and some are dark. You are spotted. Meanwhile, the little city of your childhood is aflame. The elementary school is accepting small animals. There are men putting rubber fingers in your mouth and prying it open with tools. They ask you questions as if to taunt your speechlessness. This, too, you will endure. Turn off the glow of the screen. Nobody owns anybody. You’ve reached your quota for aphorisms. Lay down each vertebrae and let the steam roll up from beneath the earth and take you down to the dream of the gate, the house of stones with little lanterns and a secret yard. This house is your house. It cannot be foreclosed. Close your mouth and take out the dirty money. Give it away freely. All the while, the river dances by too fast for any real reflection.