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by Minnie Bruce Pratt
Through binoculars1 the spiral nebula2 was a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky. Stories said it was a mark left by the hand of Night, that old she, easily weaving the universe out of milky3 strings4 of chaos5. Beatrice found creation more difficult. Tonight what she had was greasy6 water whirling in the bottom of her sink, revolution, and one clean cup. She set the blue cup down on the table, spooned instant coffee, poured boiling water, a thread of sweetened milk. Before she went back to work, she drank the galaxy7 that spun8 small and cautious between her chapped cupped hands. 点击收听单词发音
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