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10 Deciduous His crook of arm tenders my head into his chest that slows in the morphine bed and then I’m there, at black of skull, in the rhododendron blooms where my dad is still pulling rope to cobble the trunk split down the crotch by August lightning, shattering pink flurries onto the steam of hemlock. On my back, in the mulch, among my tanks and soldiers, I squint through flowered arms to catch the leaking light of day and watch him sweat and spit and try to tie off the wound. ...

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