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Whether to answer the ringing, the whispering. One way or another, the bumps crawl up my arms when I clean the gutters, if you call that living. Despite textbook responses, she is far from home. The soul is a dog retaining everything, giving itself away at the least touch, like all made things. I bathe those ear sores and hip sores. A mosquito floats in this darkened room. If I think of having a soul, even the dog is bitten. I spray lanolin on his flank, in his armpit, on the split scabs around his anus. He licks my face. The bees are dead, the garden is broken, the washer leaks, the summer place with toasted buttered buns is closed and I am a plagiarist. Lights get doused by crickets, the bean-wings eaten by does.