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The wind is giving, giving,
taking. Red maple, red maple,
sun of a sunless root.
There was a home.
We called it here.
The big lamps burned
and the wind was humming
then: taking, taking,
maple, red maple.
The branches wave a shape of air:
The wind is there and here’s
a can that clanks along the street, the tin
rush of soldiers’ feet.
the shapes are not bereaved of weight.
the town is not besieged.
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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.