The nation regroups around ambivalence: you have never been less stateless, their pain never more general. Left family, country, trees: we would be building now, watching the basketball team lose. In short: making a life, whatever that means. A whole life scheduled around cutting the grass: it would only take three hours every weekend. And friendship would still remain the biggest myth: just an accounting of loss in which your cousins play no role.

Upon turning 35, the city turned so quiet you saw no end to hate: Europe had a sense of tragedy once, now no more. To see no limit to that history, that which was worried over shall breach again: you fold in their tragedia, incorporate it. Your face calcifies, eyes lowered, mouth resting parallel at best: still you are told how young you look, taken to be 28. Keep hoping you have what they need:…

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