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B I C O A S TA L Him in the sun is not fun. Every day of mine is a white bit of kleenex, with not enough air to float. Our son asks: Is he back or forth? I say: Dream him here. A fog descends after his takeoff. How much is memory? Twenty cents he’s left on the bureau. A month of cold phones, only food children eat. My held breath is all I’m counting up to. Let the continent flex its bicep, a man built on steroids. Absence spreads—there’s nothing like presence. 46 ...

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