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Nostalgia’s the drag on each moment’s explosion. Not only weather’s undone by a change of direction. The bat dangles overhead like an echo. We are as in a brightness approaching the face, like a word not quite recalled. Fog on McCovey Cove and a school of tail lights dispersing. The city seems to rub itself out in the bay—

Who chooses solitude glances up halfway across the field to find anyone in a noisy vehicle and rolling-in heavy weather emergent.

Propeller 2.4  

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