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What can I put that won’t follow
or stick: to the white
we rely on for whiteness, for dawn:
what we must. The sun
to blind us enough, to help us go on.
It’s always: in motion
the question burning its mark as
it goes: what are these
words. What is their relationship
to light. What do I even
remember about my life. I open
a book at night: copy a line
again. It copies my tone: dares me
that white on its face
demands: that I write it, that I
too come undone
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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.