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69 Snowmelt Now the black mud, the alien ungreen and memory-stripped hills. The rawboned man who lay down buried in snow stares into a not-blue sky and tries to believe he is bright-cheeked, long-haired. Beneath, time does not stop.The acres of ice you lay down by are no longer the lake you remember. Wake in the crosshatch grass. Unweave winter’s long sleep. Let the white sun be erasure, let me not come across bones on what used to be shore. ...

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