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By Bonnie Enes White heat, not a thing moves breathing is a chore. The pine trees are gasping. Only a few notes escaping from a cardinal slice through this gelatin, like a silver spoon, sliding in and serving up a chunk of dense atmosphere -- cornflower sky, zinc white clouds, pine branches, nests with baby birds and a section of my sweat-damp, maple-sugar brown left leg and foot, the nails painted Steam Heat pink. |
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Document last modified on: 08/19/2003