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SLIVOVITZ for David Shapiro [I] The sun we see is not the real sun. The dead will not give back water, they cut my face, have what they want. A pane of glass between you and what you touch: write "Holocaust"-- try to imagine night thoughts of survivors in the suburbs of Chicago. By now they have grandchildren I have no right to picture. The real sun, deceived, stolen from the sky, put to death. Nothing new about being alive, nothing fancy. If we met at a party, for example, I could not look at you and tell you about being alone . . . in the split second-- after we were introduced and before someone else arrived to take you away-- and I will not, I refuse to sit at the counter of Dunkin' Donuts on Boylston Street late at night writing in this notebook. Parody, the redemption we deserve. What is freely given? The sun we see is not the real sun. Redemption. When was the sun the real sun? I listen and wait (sometimes I want to be helpless) for knowledge that will not fall. If the dead spoke to me after all this time I would lose my voice and have to keep singing of Zion, waiting for the dead. Parody, the redemption we deserve. A sun faltering was the last thing I saw.