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that one right there's a beauty,
peak performance,
the men say
as the horse gallops till her legs
give way—and the bullet sounds
echoing into my childhood from
my mother's shaking lips. the
whole world's an act. I do not
like the stage—a fallacy
I do not like stages—of grief, of cancer—
suffering categorized and ranked
itemized and ordered, neat and tidy—
not like the raging canter of spirit—
racing from the bullet always following.