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Took the Manifesto to the playground today— it was a new white day,

and I went to the playground with the Manifesto and with Josephine, Adam,

Adam’s new girlfriend— who is beautiful in a looks-way that I would like to be—

and her child. They were mediating an old story of themselves

in winter— arms out, sparse trees, pink light on a range or a smudge

on a viewfinder unperturbed by sunset, not clear which. Too cold to read a magazine

or have idle conversation. Too cold to have idle conversation next to a stack of magazines,

so the story came out like it otherwise might not have, and Josephine left with her black hair.

We all missed Josephine naked in the Yukon, swearing

she might dedicate all of the real estate on her back to an excerpt

of Neruda’s speaking voice. Josephine, with the Manifesto spread to a header

that made her laugh, who never thought about motives. Naked in the Yukon,

because this is what light a fire gives now, and everything else that used to be enough

is still enough, but we don’t think about it. I was Josephine

maybe in a looks-way that understood how to bargain with a mirror, like I was coming at it

from a separate angle entirely with one glass panel bent out and the light source

embedded in the wall rather than the ceiling. Enough. Then, I was Josephine,

and I understood how to barter with the weight of the light of the fire of the Yukon, and in my head

I put down the Manifesto and began to dance, disinterested as a child.