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Detachment

The new blossom is born old.
Each atom has met the inside of a distant furnace
Vibrating with the fear of disintegration.

There were me and two students,
bending low over the man’s leg, its bullae.
He used to be a ballplayer.

I asked how it felt, and only outside
did I remember his story:
the blood is not flowing and there is such

pain. They will take it off
I asked, “How does it feel”

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