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  on these stiffen white star fish; on these I slip bare footed!

Whispers of the fishy air touch my body; “Sisters,” I say to them. 

HISTORY

I. A wind might blow a lotus petal over the pyramids—but not this wind.

Summer is a dried leaf.

Leaves stir this way then that on the baked asphalt, the wheels of motor cars rush over them,— gas smells mingle with leaf smells.

Oh, Sunday, day of worship! ! !

The steps to the museum are high. Worshippers pass in and out. Nobody comes here today. I come here to mingle faiance dug from the tomb, turquoise colored necklaces and belched wind from the stomach; delicately veined basins of agate, cracked and discolored and the stink of stale urine! 