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Terracotta Typewriter A literary journal with Chinese characteristics Issue #2 July 2009

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Page 1: Terracotta Typewriter #2

Terracotta Typewriter

A literary journal with

Chinese characteristics

Issue #2 July 2009

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Terracotta Typewriter

A cultural revolution

of literature

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Unsolicited manuscripts are welcomed throughout the year.

Terracotta Typewriter seeks submissions of literary works

with a connection to China. The definition of “connection to

China” can be stretched as much as an author sees fit. For ex-

ample, expatriate writers living in China or who have lived

in China, Chinese writers writing in English, translators of

Chinese writing, works that are set in China, manuscripts

covered in Chinese food (General Tso’s chicken doesn’t

count), or anything else a creative mind can imagine as a con-

nection to China.

© 2009 by Terracotta Typewriter. All rights reserved.

Visit our Web site at http://www.tctype.com.

This literary journal is free for distribution.

NOT FOR RESALE.

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July 2009

Table of Contents

From the Editor 1

Prasanna Surakanti 2 Pictures Claiming

Adoration

Michael Shorb 3 Galloping Horse

Unearthed at Leitai, China

Charlotte Hyvernaud 5 Perceptions

Rob Schackne 9 The Bones of Fish

10 Sunday in Century Park,

Shanghai

R.J. Devoix 11 My Mother’s Dumplings

J. Whitmel Earley 15 Be Still, Shanghai

17 If Seamus Heaney Came to

Shanghai I’d Tell Him

18 June Fourth

Andrew Carpino 19 from East

Christopher Mulrooney 20 sayings of Confucius

Contributor Notes 24

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From the Editor

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second issue of Terracotta Typewriter. I’m

pleased with the response the first issue received, and I’d like

to thank everyone who read it. Of course, the success of this

literary journal couldn’t have been achieved without the

wonderful writers who submitted their work.

We recently began a couple features on the News section of

the Web site: Mandarin Mondays and Get Over the Hump.

We hope that you will find the Mandarin lessons interesting

and helpful. We also hope the writing prompts for Get Over

the Hump will breed creativity. Please e-mail us or leave a

comment if you have any questions or suggestions for either

feature.

I hope you enjoy issue number two of Terracotta Typewriter,

and continue to enjoy this literary journal far into the future.

Sincerely,

Matthew Lubin

Publisher & Editor

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Prasanna Surakanti

Pictures claiming adoration

says Amy Lucile Rolfe

may be placed above the

level of the eye

where just pictures should

be

Pairs of statues of

men on horses

and terracotta warriors

on long cupboards

inspired awe

unlike on a ledge

at waist level.

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Michael Shorb

Galloping Horse Unearthed at Leitai, China

Your blind green eyes saw all

There was to see on earth

Your massive bronze shoulders

Tested every grade

of mineral age and snow

Chisel-stroking sunlight of creation

Motion of a vanished master's hand.

Your silence outlasted sound:

Storm where a city burned, roaring market rivers,

Carts bearing away rice, silver, human bones.

An arrogant emperor loved you more than wisdom.

Stood you running in Taoist stillness before

His palace gate, ordered a jade sparrow

Welded to your upraised hoof to show

The speed and balance of your stillness.

The cities and systems of this earth

Are wheat fields in the mind.

Grown to bearded heights of fruitfulness

They fall

field street and armory

Threshed away

By inviolable waters of ignorant repetition.

You alone, sleeping two thousand years

Like a seed in the loam of China, remain.

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I wanted to be among the Chinese diggers

Who discovered you. With a vanished

Youth bound for war who touched your hoof

For grace because he had no God.

To help hold you as the brushes strained

Residues of oblivion from your long smooth face,

Joining a common impulse

To lift you back into the blackbird-

Flooded skies of time,

Whole and human.

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Charlotte Hyvernaud

Perceptions

August 1, 2007

I ’ve been in Beijing almost a week now. The skies are

grey with pollution; the air heavy with smoke and heat;

the view from the 18th floor apartment somewhat de-

pressingly blocked by high risers in the distance; the

roads are fogged up with exhaust fumes. Our apartment

building stands high in a popular area, with hairdressers/

prostitution parlours down an uneven alleyway filled with

bins bursting with rotting vegetables and pools of piss; col-

lectors pile up cardboard and plastic bottles in carts they

wheel to the end of the alleyway where they get packed up

and driven away on trucks at night; street vendors sleep on

wooden planks in cramped square rooms under the huge

apartments blocks; oblivious children sleep round street cor-

ners on carts at night. I saw a man sleeping on the pavement

the other day: he was lying there, not drunk, but sleeping,

under a bridge, seemingly unconsciously inhaling the fumes

of the busy dual carriage road. The following day he was still

there mending some rags. A few minutes away fishermen

fish in the lake; men in underwear hanging wet from their

bony buttocks swim in the canal; young girls wearing the lat-

est trend (mid-thigh flimsy dresses over lace knee-low black

stockings) smoke in the streets; young men are adorned with

tattoos and piercings; middle aged men with bellies protrud-

ing from under their rolled up white T-shirts squat, a water-

melon slice in hand; women in their pyjamas after night fall,

walk the streets leisurely; crowds shout in high-tech mobile

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phones; startled groups of people scurry under the antici-

pated and welcomed summer rain; cycles wind in and out of

traffic. A biker almost hit a woman about to cross at a pedes-

trian red light: he turned back and his finger pointed straight

at her, hatred in his eyes, hissed, saliva dripping at the cor-

ners of his mouth.

Beijing is a world of contrasts. Unapologetically.

Third evening in a row, the refreshing rain falls down in

sparkling strings, washing away the dirt and leaving behind

the promise of a new beginning. The whole city is being

washed of the sweat and dirt it accumulated today. Yet to-

morrow will be another sweaty dirty day…From the balcony,

the windows from the surrounding buildings gleam in the

shadows at irregular intervals like a Chagall painting: one

expects some fish to float around as a reminder of Arizona

Dream.

Meanwhile, drops continue to splatter through the mosquito

window nets. Light touches of freshness. In the distance the

thunder tears the fabric of the night sky revealing the blind-

ing white light inside.

Surely a change is taking place. Outside and inside.

August 4

As we walked along the shallow canal that flows 5mn away

from the flat, squat old buildings sit in a row at the bottom of

the high risers, dwarfed by them. A rusty truck, wheel-less,

advertises for “mei rong” (beauty parlour) and the eyes of

passers-by have worn out the two upholstered chairs in a

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junkyard behind the buildings. They sit like furniture of a

surreal theatre scene. Waiting for Godot. Soot-covered youth

pedal along the river, delivering rings of coal that look like

burnt doughnuts taken out of the oven and put to cool down

on wooden planks. Oily frying pans aligned on the pavement

evoke the remains of a frugal feast. Mothers scrub their chil-

dren who bathe in plastic basins in courtyards otherwise

piled up with antiquated junk on the pavements. A truck

parks daily along those family quarters, selling anti-

cockroaches spray.

August 5

Every time I look out of the window a new landscape seems

to have emerged since the last time I gazed out. I am discov-

ering new shapes, new lights, new voids, new colours. Differ-

ent models of life.

At night it seems some parts of the city are more beautiful,

more tranquil even. Away from the cacophonous pollution of

the soul, the noise recedes and lights shimmer in the lake. Is

there a city at the bottom of the lake, under its wriggling rip-

ples and is it only a reflection on its surface? Ducks paddling;

cranes standing on floating branches; benches in the shadows

welcome the nightwalkers. It’s around 12 at night and walk-

ing back home we come across workers carrying long bam-

boos balanced on their shoulders. They are taking the poles

to a building site.

Last evening, we were eating at the terrace of a restaurant in

a narrow street. A shiny new foreign car drove past, a self-

assured, well-dressed Chinese man in his 30s at the wheel.

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The front bumper slightly touched the ankle of a stout,

cropped-haired Chinese passer-by. He slowly turned round,

almost indiscernibly, looking quietly at the driver. Walked

around the car. The driver pre-empting what was going to

happen gently undid his safety belt and opened the door to

face the passer-by who was now rubbing the back of his an-

kle. A hushed but straight-to-business exchange of words en-

sued, ending up in the driver handing out 100 RMB to the

passer-by. The driver climbed back into his shiny expensive

car, a faintly amused smile on his lips. The passer-by walked

on leisurely, smugly.

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Rob Schackne

The Bones of Fish

Indented are the tiny bones

In the fossil record

Vibrating an irritation

Down strange countless years—

A teenage boy holds

An exceptional surprise

The skeleton remains

Of a nervous spinal system;

Maybe unpredictable

Balanced with a tear

Everyone eschews their memory

Leaves old things undigested—

He feels maybe he can’t love fish

Frantic in understatement

Until he can hear their bones

Perfecting the continuous wave;

Man, that system was working

Crazy and open like the swirling sea

But when waters receded

Landing the ancestors high and dry

They gave their augury to the earth

Left their lives behind on stone

Like the teeth of a billion frustrations—

Or nothing if not in the shape of bones.

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Sunday in Century Park, Shanghai

The blue sky is against the people

Occasional birds fly high overhead

Insisting against the worsening air

She lays her light green jacket down

You lie back against a decade-old lake

On surprising grass under new trees

And she puts her head against your chest

On a heart of spring while the birds

And the people sing against time.

What is it for this time? Don’t ask

For what you don’t know anything about

This song is for everything that’s missing

The population here for the evening breeze

Forgetting the fevers of work and food

Everyone walks slowly in forgiveness

For the natural world must be remembered

One step at a time around a modern park

For cherry blossoms and the tiny mushrooms.

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R.J. Devoix

My Mother’s Dumplings 饺子饺子饺子饺子

T here's no taste in the world better than my

mother's dumplings. On winter evenings the steam

from the dumplings would fill our small kitchen. I

remember the sound of the water boiling and the

smell of cooked pork mixed with herbs. On the walk from

school the thought of the hot dumplings warming my stom-

ach made me want to run home.

My mother was born in the summer of 1937, just before the

War of Resistance Against Japan. She grew up in a small vil-

lage in the countryside not far from the city of Chaoyang,

Fengtian (now Liaoning Province). Her parents were peas-

ants. When my mother married the young man from a

neighboring farm they were happy. He was twenty-four and

she was nineteen years old.

In those days country girls did not got to school and my

mother could not read and write. All her life she said she

wanted to learn to read but she never managed it. Instead she

took care of our family.

Once I saw a photograph of my mother. It had been taken at

a neighbour's house. It showed a smiling, red cheeked

woman holding a young child. From then I recognised the

way the sun and the wind had burnt the youth from her face.

It felt strange to look back, to think of her life at that

time. The child in the photograph was me.

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The photograph was taken before my father went to fight

with the Nationalists against the Japanese. He did not return.

My mother would not have been able to read the telegram

that arrived at the village hall. The leader of the village had

to come to the house to read it to her. When my mother saw

him through the window she let out a high shriek. It was the

noise of a woman's worst fear. When village chief left she

locked the door so no-one could enter the house. She cried

for three whole days.

After my father's death my mother's smile changed. Her eyes

remained sad as if to honour the memory of my father. I re-

member the next Spring Holiday she put on her red quilted

jacket and tried to squeeze happiness into her voice like jam

into a bare tin. She invited the local children to play. For sup-

per we had a feast of beautiful fish, chicken, doufu, and my

favourite dumplings. My father's parents said they enjoyed it

very much. Afterwards I saw my mother sobbing, her shoul-

ders rocking silently, alone in the kitchen.

I was diligent at school. I hoped my hard work would make

my mother happy. Soon it was time for me to attend a new

school. The school was far away. I would have to stay with

an aunt in the town. How can you leave your mother? I re-

fused to go but my mother insisted. She told me that my fa-

ther had promised to teach her to read. As he couldn't do that

now someone else would need to teach her. If I learnt to read

and write then I could teach her. "Ping, will you do that for

me?"

My years at High School went quickly. The aunt took good

care of me. I concentrated on my studies. My only wish was

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to post a present to my mother. I had no money so I painted

pictures of my school and posted them in little stiff brown

paper envelopes.

It wasn't long before I sat the university entry examinations. I

was lucky. My memory was strong and the examination

questions suited me. I was accepted at TsingHua Normal

University in Beijing. When I returned home in July that year

and told my mother the true smile returned to her face. She

was so proud she ran through the summer rain to tell our

neighbours. Later, before I left, the villagers gave me money

to help my studies.

It was in the cold weeks of late November when I received

the message. My mother had been taken ill. She was in hospi-

tal. Immediately I grabbed my bag and rushed to Beijing rail-

way station. How long had she been ill? Was she in pain?

How serious was it? My mind was in turmoil.

When I got to the town railway station Xiao Deng, the son of

our village chief, was waiting to meet me. His face was long.

I was too late. Tears welled in my eyes as he explained my

mother's illness. She had said she was unwell only the week

before. When she collapsed in the field a neighbour had ar-

ranged for a car to take her to the hospital. She had died at

dawn.

How could this happen? My mother wasn't even old.

"Why don't I take you to your parents' house?"

I nodded.

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When we got to the house it was cold and dark. I looked

around nervously. Xiao Deng asked if I would prefer to go to

his house. His wife was making supper. "Come and have

some food," he said. I said it was okay, I wanted some time

alone.

Inside everything looked the same, as if my mother was

about to return at any moment. I stifled the urge to cry. My

mother would not approve if I shed tears before her funeral.

I looked in the small kitchen. The scruffy refrigerator stood

where it had always stood. I opened it. There was little food

inside. I pulled at the door of the small freezer compartment.

Crispy ice showered the floor like sparks jumping from a

wood fire. I pulled out a full paper bag.

On the bag was careful writing, in pencil. "Xiao Ping", it said.

I placed the bag of frozen dumplings next to the cooker and

looked for the boiling pot.

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J. Whitmel Earley

Be Still, Shanghai

I must wake her early, on this cold March morning.

Rain again. So I lie back down next to her.

We, parallel curves leaning into coming day.

When nothing moves your weight spreads over your back

like a puddle, like goose flesh. Her skin near hot to the touch,

smooth by negation as I'm not. I ward off blurry sleep

distortions of the

room that seep in like mist through my walls, reluctant

insistence

on actuality. I dream best on the metro anyway,

in fragile vacuums, fluorescent tubes of white. She arches

her head into my collar, responding to my presence—

this is the privilege of kings, without words, beyond

purchase or wage.

While she is gone, still off in the haze, I for an instant feel

strong

like a husband. Defined by her, like a lover. But soon as

moods

fade to particulars, moments all go to movement, we will

fuss

over breakfast and I will not say how I wished never to get

up.

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16

Gone now, I’ve descended, the stairs to the platform—my

throne to

moist city innards. The train’s rushing echo caught in my

throat I pray

be still, Shanghai, and let me know just one moment.

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If Seamus Heaney Came to Shanghai I’d Tell Him

Take the back alley behind HongKou Stadium

and as you are going you will pick your way, stepping

over a bucket of eel, around the blanket of winter melon

and green leaves in the fierce hold of blue rubber bands.

Squeals of children drawn into the shade of the alleys

like echoes going backwards. Steps flattened out in the

wet film the sidewalk sweats in summer, soft suck of knife

pulled from meat, smack of dough on tin counters; all enters

through the stomach and in the shape of O’s. Do not

distinguish

but eat them whole and crack the seeds under your tongue.

It’s best to think in aftertastes. A language sensible only

between

the syllables. And do not reach for your camera or worship

the

memory. Only look back through the steam and the spokes,

with the light rubbing the blue tile and shining the ink black

wires drawn across the sky, and the humming current will

sing over you

a song of exile. In your pockets you will press your fingers

into your palms

and the space you find there will inflate your chest like a big

red balloon.

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June Fourth

Twenty years after 6/4/89

and Shanxi road is so damn quiet.

A country lane of woven ladies shoes between

meadows of dandelion cranes.

One wishes you would

grow your bamboo. Or catch fire, blaze shops

and designer flagships and banks.

The darkness something viscous

dripping on street lights and shop windows,

bubbles of yellow slowly shrinking back

like faded memories.

A man leans on the balcony of a makeshift

dormitory full of co-workers

too sleepy for a conversation of tea

or a red bucket of suds to scrub a t-shirt.

The brave moths are twittering

in the lost hours of the retreat

caught and nervous, trapped in the glow between

the oil black and the phosphor burn.

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19

Andrew Carpino

from East

"Funny how paper muted light,

on artificial evenings,

breath pulses into attempts

of conversation between the in and out

of block engines and the hidden master's

thoraxal orchestra in the dry tangles

of Chinese bushes in the fresh boxes."

He thought, in an ancient scene

recapping his sleep,

"Glad to be free of teenage myth,

democracy, —filled to the brim

with graces and paternal dedications.

Unsettled soldiers call, arms waving,

'dress for revolution laddy!

Long past?

Surfacing again, son,

pushing the blood through'"

Only to tarnish leather with civility.

No longer migrating smallwinged Yankees,

now a single herring, low flying

leaving ripple flutters for the koi

while turtles slow wrestle for a pile

on the indistinguishable stone sacrifice.

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Christopher Mulrooney

sayings of Confucius

those of Chi without authority went to sacrifice on Mt. T’ai

thus said the Master to their minister Jan Ch’iu

it is yours to stop them in the rites

no

is Mt. T’ai stupid any more than Lin Fang?

versed in Hsia and Yin rites am I

Ch’i and Sung know nothing

unwritten untold

otherwise known

I am of Yin

Yen Ying knows people

forgives long acquaintance

study without Tao

Tao without sureness

sureness without converse

cherry flowers spin

I think of you

far away

there is what is not

superior men

Yen Hui

Min Shun Jan Keng

Jan Yung

fine speakers

Tsai Yü

Tuan-mu Tz’u

governors

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21

Jan Ch’iu

Chung Yu

learned men

Yen Yen

Pu Shang

Yen Hui did not help me to think

he was a yes man

Yen Hui expired his father asked the Master’s carriage

to exchange it for a double coffin

the Master said to him all my pupils are my sons good or

bad

when Li my son expired he had a single coffin I did not go on

foot

so he could have a double coffin I am the son of a gentleman

and do not go on foot

Yen Hui expired all the pupils wanted to bury him richly

not Confucius yet they did so and the Master said

I was a father to Yen Hui but did not treat him as my son

this is your fault pupils

Chuan-sun Shih wanted to know about superiority and non-

sense

superiority is adherence trueness and justice

life for love death for hate

together nonsense

not for wealth

something else

Ching of Ch’i wanted to know about ruling

king king

minister minister

father father

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22

son son

though grain were abundant you could not eat more

the superior man makes allowances uniquely

the inferior man is ubiquitous and irks

Nan-kung Kua asked Confucius Yi of Hsia shot well

Ao shifted a beached vessel and they died early

Yü the Great and Chi were farmers and ruled

why? the Master said nothing

afterward the Master said he is a superior man

for he prizes it

Pi Ch’en sketched it

Yu Chi analyzed it

the Great Secretary Kung-sun Hui revised it

Kung-sun Ch’iao of Tung-li polished it

Tsang-sun Ho of Fang solicited his brother Wei

as leader of the family ancestral sacrifice in Lu

it is said without pressure on the King

not so

the best withdraw

next advance

next shun

next flee

seven persons

Yüan Hui wanted to know about rule

calendar of Hsia

coach of Yin

hat of Chou

music of Shun

none of Cheng no fine speakers

Cheng is depraved fine speakers are baneful

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together among kindness without justice

impossible

once the astrologer wrote nothing

when in doubt

once the horseman

had his horses broken in

not now

at forty it is necessary to win respect

Chih the great musician of Lu went to Ch’i

Kan the next went to Ch’u

Liao the next went to Ts’ai

Ch’üeh the next went to Ch’in

Fang-shu the drummer went north

Wu the drumtwirler went to the Han Valley

Yang the assistant and Hsiang who played the gongs went to

sea

in the reign of Chou

eight gentlemen four sets of twins by one mother

Po-ta and Po-kuo

Chung-tu and Chung-hu

Shu-yeh and Shu-hsia

Chi-sui and Chi-kua

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Contributor Notes

Andrew Carpino was born, raised and schooled in New

Hampshire. After graduating with a BA in English, he trav-

eled from Kyoto to Ho Chi Minh by boats, trains, buses, and

tuk-tuks. He currently lives and works in Washington, CT,

with his girlfriend and dog, Stonewall Jackson. This is his

first published work.

R. J. Devoix is a writer and commentator. He has lived in

Asia, Europe, and North America. He speaks a little English,

Mandarin, and Cantonese, and has fun with French, German,

and Italian. He enjoys walking in the mountains where he

used to climb as a young man. He can be found at http://

www.devoix.com/.

J. Whitmel Earley is an English Literature graduate of the

University of Virginia and now lives, studies, and writes in

Shanghai, China. His poetry and short fiction, interested on

reducing cities to their people, have appeared in Relief Maga-

zine and Inkstone Magazine.

Sylvie Charlotte Hyvernaud first came to China in early

2001 to work as a volunteer for VSO, teaching English in

Qinghai province for two years. In all she stayed over six

years in Qinghai. She currently teaches French in Wuhan

where she’s been for just under one year.

Christopher Mulrooney has written poems and translations

in Nebula, Caesura, New Translations, Drunken Boat, Moloch,

and The Delinquent.

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Rob Schackne is an Australian writer currently working in

China, watching it all get curiouser and curiouser—and some

days he thinks there's nothing easy about the Tao. In spite of

that—or because of it—there’s a slightly feverish literary blog

he writes with Boris Knack called “The Tao That Can Be

Named…” which is found at http://www.blognow.com.au/

borisknack.

Michael Shorb's work reflects a satirical focus on present

day trends and events, as well as a lyrical interest in culture

and history. His poems have appeared in The Nation, The Sun,

Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Rattle, and

European Judaism, as well as other publications and antholo-

gies.

Prasanna Surakanti is an electrical engineer interested in lit-

erature. Prasanna’s previous work appeared in the Fall 2007

edition of Ignite ASU poetry magazine (http://

www.west.asu.edu/ignite/publications.html) and in K.L.

Storers chapbook The Motion in Motive (http://

www.thewritegallery.com/cb/motion-motive/sundial.html).

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