1
It was 1983 and I was six years old, riding between my father and brother in my father's Oldsmobile, back when front seats stretched from door to door. My father drove, and my brother, who was
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me
one evening
in the city
of un-
known poets
we'll talk
not a word
of the turning
world
no
but win-
dows throw
open
and listen
to the unsung in
unison
beautifully
singing