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Angela Ball

Summer 1989

A Language

By Angela Ball

For Michael Ondaatje There’s a story of a young woman walking by mistake out onto an unfinished bridge, being blown off, falling, being caught by a welder, his arm wrenched […]

Winter 1991

Sky

By Angela Ball

The air is way lovelier than it has a right to be. Everything in a spin of bloom, everything high and handsome. Exactly because it’s so unlikely, there’s sadness smack […]

Winter 1991

Text

By Angela Ball

Chekhov said that love’s “either a remnantof something which has been immense, or a particle of something immensein the future.” Now, no big thing. I think it’s the dark centerof […]