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Tiny plastic robot, lit from insideby the dim glow of twin LEDsbehind blank eyes, its stickered decalsalready peeling away – meaningless arrays, dials fixed at ten,gapless grilles of imitation steel,Clipart screws holding nothingtight to nothing – the only textures
I often hike the west ridge of White Oak Canyon alone, though everyone says I shouldn’t. By the slow push of wind and rain, that slope of stones is the only way nowto reach the upper falls,where decades ago we’d make love for hours to the

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