160 The Meadow and I have mapped out the fact of other people against my atlas open to the beech tree down the street—wide as a hug— that finds always an unearned place in the cave of my mind. This is the quick of the fishtail. This is a thimble of rainwater in the lizard-skinned Mojave. This is holiday, telephone, and time alone. But mostly, this is the map to my home.
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