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62 Stain Bittersweet: gold-red indelible berry, its branches swirling in a tangle. Every autumn, we’d drive southeast to where the bushes line the roads in Rhode Island. Once in November, I watched my friend’s dark sweater dip and disappear, then rise above the tall bleached winter grass, the teasel. Glamorous, that distant pine flashing in a field steeped in momentary golden. And strange are the shades that linger here from youth, a terrain compounding confession and silence. ...

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