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88 From The Clear Coast We went into the ripe woods by the sea With metal buckets to collect guilt. The vegetation was low, thick, sure of itself, Into itself, a vain forest—yet the pines Appeared deferential, and said a prayer For us as we passed.Why, then, guilt? Because it was, since you asked, What this wild land was bursting with. Was obsessed with, the way a child, Learning his letters, sees x’s, s’s, and o’s On the backs of beetles, in the patterns Of spilled toys, and in varicose veins. Guilt ornamenting thicket, bramble, ivy. It was guilt in berries’ clothing, guilty As sin from the summer, that left us In a lather, as we plucked and foraged Away.We took turns forgetting To set the parking brake, cover the pool, And lock up the poison, then neglected Our loved ones in rapid fire. We cheered each other on, since none Of us was perfect.We didn’t feel Like predators—yet who of us so much As loosened our hold on that creaky Handle as we walked home in the dark, Swinging our buckets of juicy guilt? We had a lot to be sorry for, and tipped Our guide accordingly. ...

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