WEBVTT

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"Surface."

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The painter recalled his
childhood through his skin,

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small, cold rooms lit
by hot flashes of anger.

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Mornings in bed, the pulse
of your breath on my neck.

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The dunes marked here and
there by swallows shadows

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as by blown bits of paper.

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Will the dead as
we crowd the Earth,

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resist the urge to visit?

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The survivors said they washed
themselves with ash or sand.

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