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spill out of the mountains

I am terrified of Sunday nights in Oakland, stagnant ponds along the boulevard and the suspended breath of trees. I don't want to be the last of my family, caught with the carpet in the reflection of the sliding glass window. I went to the hospital to report my isolation sickness to the ghosts of doctors and nurses. I walk forever without reaching the end of the corridor. Please don't turn off the TV. I need a hand to hold when I think of the blinking red lights over the countryside. I need to practice squinting for summers in blacktop outside the bowling alley or the appliance repair shop.

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