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Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
First, we’re skinny-dipping,
Sam & I, in a pond in Tennessee,
which is his idea, I should say,
cord in the tunnel
from mind to the. . .
Worker dissent brews at an iconic New York bookstore.
On providing therapy for agents of state violence.
Two Palestinian novels confront the ghosts of the Nakba.