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70 clAm sHell These are the white shapes of memory. A shell’s wrinkled edge like bleached bedsheets, slept in, its fluted striations like the tendons in your wrists, the knobby hasp a clavicle meeting shoulder, its outward press one hard, white patella brimming beneath skin. A shell like a fist in the sheets, like the knotted face of the moon. I remember how you learned to sleep in terrible pain, the high, ringing scrape of grit beneath the shell an echo of hard new cells splitting your femurs like wedges.When the pain vanished, you were taller.You lay wakeful. Regret, like the finest sand, still burnishes my skin. ...

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