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We pause nowhere in Boston, even to admire a store window and
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the perimeters of our wandering are nowhere.
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No one watching this woman smear
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her initials in the steam on her water
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glass with her first finger, or slip cellophane packets of oyster
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crackers into her handbag for the seagulls could know how her thoughts
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are thronged by our absence, or know
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how she does not watch, does not listen,
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does not wait, does not hope, and always for me and Sylvie.
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So, you see in that incredibly lyrical
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evocation of absence how the very
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absence calls forth this lyric voice.