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Open Dig There was so much to forgive... my birth, my alien stare, white scar where I drew on the back of my wrist with the knife on your line-in-the-sand dare as you crossed your arms and watched. There is nothing to forgive. Death slowly opened you to me those last years like another language found in a hermit's sharp cave, the possibility of barter gone out of it, but the angel of its images still armed and radiant. I unfold imaginary scrolls of you, translucent paper wings, and read what is preserved. Commentators will argue over which words are prayer and which are sarcasm. I only knew sometimes, myself. Barter has gone out of this tongue Which is best left to specialists now. So why am I still haggling in your foreign marketplace where all goods are gone, all sales made final? It's because I know your silence and expect you are still inflating prices So everything I want will be out of reach again. I'll sit in your dust for years. The sun of anger still heats this ground. I'll never admit this ancient market is closed.
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