My Eurydice

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1967, New York City, East River From Jackson Pollock, I had learned to hateBotticelli’s The Birth of Venus— those white, white sheets—thrown back covers of the breakers’ unmade bed, and Venusuncombed, unkempt, always just decanted from sleep, that hair—a serpentine peignoir tossed across her shoulders— I scrubbed my palette down to nothingbut the colors of […]

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