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Regions of space took my strength away‚ but nervously I rose again to check the locks. Being a single adult in a house of children says nothing at all about time zero. Says nothing at all about hatchets and blaze. What I found most beautiful was his shout from across the court‚ shout of victory. Solid bodies of coaches. Much as the translation of a book into five different languages might seem to confuse its origin‚ the various models of the mother begin to overlap. In one‚ she buttons her coat. In another‚ she faces the waves. In a third‚ the lips are chapped‚ fourth‚ licked‚ fifth nothing—only a certain temperature‚ cooler than the air. That’s it. My name is called.
This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.
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In his new book, philosopher William MacAskill implies that humanity’s long-term survival matters more than preventing short-term suffering and death. His arguments are shaky.
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