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44 Summer of Love The blue lilies have turned to powder where you stood shaking sun-sequins from your hair. The same palm trees host different bat-ears and crab-eyes. It felt so good to melt in sea, to meld with sky, I wish I’d had a silver net to catch that day. I wish I’d had hot bronze to dip it in, so I could touch it on my mantel any time. Just wisps remain: pale blurs of skin, an empty beach, a purple blanket in the shade of my red VW van, sun flaming off Galveston sand as your green bikini wiggled to your feet, and the war in Vietnam lurched, bleeding, by. I’ll pretend we blasted Hendrix’s “Little Wing.” I’ll pretend we fired a bowl of Kona gold. I’ll pretend we’re still in one another’s arms, our cries like the gulls’ that soar and glide and rise high in the humid air where we still float under this Texas sun, somewhere. ...

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