Beneath a web of vines, she memorized the patchwork of the stars. This she did three thousand miles north, three thousand miles— from the sky?—no, away her body reflected three thousand times, that body the stars reflected. But they had escaped the night, those stars fled from the fog, how audacious it was, the icing of fog. That night it had draped itself over the flaccid buildings, over the glazed eyes of grandmothers; they tied the charcoal pigs, tied their necks to wooden posts, and from the posts, those pigs, they did not know, those pigs, whether the stars had scattered, or hidden, had they hidden that evening? The pigs could never know. Only the one displaced, uprooted from the north, hated that evening, and its barren stars, how hidden, those stars, how lost they were
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