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Where nothing can touch you.
Not the chair you sit in, not illness.
Dear dread, you are part
of the steel beams, the stupid lit-up signs.
Here, buy my line, my
shaking lung. My cup needs more.
The hand clips itself to the door
it clasps. This blinking,
these wet bodies.
Being prepared ends. What it means
to be the wind.
Empty stomach, be glad,
you need too much most days.
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in your carpeted office you lay my life down / and say open up to that small room in my sternum.
In his new book, the former Fed chair cuts through economic orthodoxy on central banking. But he fails to reckon deeply with its political consequences.