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15 Hurricane Season The blood moon thirsts. All night, listening to unspoken prayers, she tugs the sea beyond itself until redundant waves retreating wash the yellowed marshes clean. In the heat that follows too much rain, people crowd the churches. On this September Sunday morning their hymns begin to rise and slap the winds still raging. This is the music of bones entwined in mortal language— words of those who know the wind erases every footprint carved in earth where water, tired as a dreamer, circling beneath oblivious clouds blurs the variations painted on each human face. Into the open womb of the sea descend the ashes of our sins. 16 What keeps us here? Not gravity or light, but rust on fences, holding every house of swollen wood, an ache a tooth, the day moon adrift grinding tiny islands down to bone. ...

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