on the shores of the bath-temperature water filled swimming pool............. My own identity was deeply submerged,
smooth pieces of sculpture...........................and in the relentless heat,
white bandages....................in the courtyard at Ocatillo,
the holes that the woodpeckers made............I was writing someone else's life.
the sound of human voices........ burning, burning, burning................................ come on across to the Internet............ brown grass on the hills... the holes in the cactus.............. their stirking yellow flowers.............. the red mountains........................ low flying planes............. the smell of green grass.... warm stones by the river......................... a red front door................ under the eves of the porch........................ ............................ the smell of the leather couch.................... as good as I ever made them....................... I could almost feel his hands..................... but there was no warm milk.......... hand carved napkin rings......................... sopapillas...................... mustard colored tiles............... the long walk into town the sound that the lizards made..............

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