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Tuesday, March 16, 2010

In a squat cabin in Siberia there was a man
who was never a part of known history.
A shadow in three syllables, his name survived
only in his children's imagination.
He was closest to himself when, his blood sanguine
with grain alcohol, he left his documents underneath
his blanket and wandered out among the frozen birches.
What happened there

in the places where things lose their names?

--Anders Sh. Mandersson

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