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ISSUE:  Autumn 1994
He has been back in New York two hours.
The cars bank and drift, sputtering like crabs.

It has just stopped raining, he comes in, turns off the lights,
opens the curtains and lets the sky’s gray song begin.
Everything has gone wet. The brown bag went
translucent and now one fist of broccoli punches through it.
His hair snakes down his forehead and the kettle water
redoubles into a foggy tea. His hands shake. And he
can still close his eyes and imagine sun he felt twelve
hours ago, he can still open his hands and cup hived flora.
He places the chicken in the freezer, and on top of it one
slate fish with a dull eye.

He puts everything away, rearranges the drawers,
and eventually drops a knife on his squared kitchen
tile, it applauds briefly. The morning sun leaks in
beige and unsteeped. He regards his unlit
apartment, thinking it looks murky like faucetwater.
He finds a bed and leans back. And soon, he discovers
his hands typing out a memorized phone number.
When someone answers, he swallows and expects to say:
When I was young I used to have a fear of Stigmata, that
one successful fever. I could imagine the nail-space and
  the hurt.
Now I’ve put my hands in the bowl but the elegy won’t
  stop.
I used to imagine that if it happened someone like you
  would come. I just want someone here, someone like you, to see
how I’ve become so shocked through with blood
. But
  instead he says:
“I’m home.”

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