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81 Carafe For A-C The carafe stands on the table, narrow hipped. Striations combing round its belly let water swirl and cool inside. A small dew drapes its crystal body, green, bluish and naked, giving itself to the slant light refracts. A star at the bottom where the glassblower twisted it last. I palm it, pour myself a drink. It gurgles, trying to hold its horizon. I set it back on the rim it marks, turn off the lights, lips wet in the dark. ...

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