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measures It is not enough to keep the town pretty absolute or garment-like. The drift shapes the afternoon into an ultrasilent room of covered things—throws over furniture in the second house seaside. Windex-blue sky. The beach swept of its soft sea bodies and the hard remains: Corrugated Jewel Box, Greedy Dove. Sand dollars still pink and multi-legged, sunbleached , final. I mean, it’s boiling there in the Mid-Atlantic Ridge—volcanic burblings and the sea floor shrinking as much as it is expanding. All shift measured by echo, by millimeter. Unheard of. From where you are you cannot stop the boat from moving across the water. Knowing no, desperate. As if there’s storm out there, the light gone all sick, green. Wind marked across the dunes—graphic topography. Sundown red, abstract, the way you like because it’s easy to believe. As if movement from knowledge to faith was that easy. Beyond, for good. 76 ...

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