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38 Scratched Retina: Memento Mori Dear coffee grounds, ground pepper, memorial crumbs floor-fallen and pinned there. Dear last night’s doors to heavier sleep through which each eye feared its twin should wander. Dear wandering dust in the eye liver-shaped like the shy Brancusi bust stumbled onto on the internet last night: forgive this foolish English cottage-style dotage alive with flies and doorway formicology. Little fears come in tracks of black ants, brittle to the touch, skating on the surface of the open eye. Every eye loves just one lash. And that lash will fall gravely and unseen like a drachma next to the pound. Dear dull Drachma: if you died as well, hexed the very eye you meant to cover well sunken, would you garner such graven respectability? Shrill imitator of the crow, in the photo I have, you lie, still, as in death. Or you are teaching the dead to rest. ...

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