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253 f r o m n e w w o r d s s a n d Ridges flowing out of time back to seawater. Snakeskin from a branch above the road. Honeycombs along the beach, black rocks years in the water like bits of my own erotic brain the children find. A stone like a smooth cinder with three faces, one yawning. one with a shell in its mouth, one a skull’s face. A week without mail or telephone or news listening to surf— just the waking edge falling toward sleep repeating itself. Waiting to the end, for dawn. Walking out in the tips of light away from mirrors and windows. Dawn: lifting and opening a net dripping jellies and seaweed. Sand sinks in places settling ahead of me on the beach. Water moving through sand. ...

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