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The Lake There's something false to this— it's all surface, a shard of sky, and below that, one imagines a wild unconscious slime. Lovers come at twilight, in neutrality, couples who hang their heads as if forced into arrangements with their own reflections. Birds shift down, dipping, but only their shadows are cleansed. They are hunting bluebottles and other transparencies; love could not inspire such endless activity. I stand on the bank, its ragged moss like a velveteen collar torn away at the shoulder. Looking across, I see the other half, the other so much like this place and my place in it. The scalloped algae parts and there we are, mirrored like James' witches standing shameless and possessed at either end, the moonlight's slack bed sheet beneath us. 20 ...

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