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Summer Mantra The sun silvers in its blistered skin— your ghazal rises from the humid lounge of your mouth through open windows and doorways into street stalls cluttered with colored glass and a blueskinned Krishna, like a broken bird song transmitted through filmy transistor radios. Sari flung against smudged skyline, its crisp snap shimmering in the evening’s tarnished sunset. Drumbeats and dustcolored chiffon. Monsoon rain—its sizzle and spice biting into walls and pavement. I am turned inside out by the ache in your voice, the taste of your tongue. • • •  • • • ...

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