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42 This Cadaverous Topography The strangest of our rivers races muddy, Juniper berries falling and rolling off hillsides, Collecting notions of what is need, Of what is want, sweeping them into The flow, with the malm and dull roots. The sun is forgetful and so shines again, Surprised to find herself in her own light And cutthroats splash in the eddies, Along undercut banks, near some confluence. We follow it down to a place that matters, Where we drink coffee and remember our boots. The strangest of our rivers divides us, Wedges deep with the push of storms And drives hard the harsh rush Of events that shape our fear of each Other. The moon took us and showed us the springs, Gently suggested that we not drown. Said so with a handful of desiccated earth, The chrome yellow reflection of his eyes in the pool. And so the moment tells us that Death, disillusionment, xenophobia, stupidity Has undone so many, What I tell you three times is true. What I tell you three times is true. What I tell you three times is true. ...

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