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Gane, Eishing Randy Phillis If it weren't you who died it would have been me: this constant flow of time would keep us from sitting down to breakfast together, still keep us from drinking too much in the red light of Ben's Lounge or Juanita's, keep us from fishing this fat muddy river, named twice, the Grand, the Colorado. We were different, and I know I should leave it that way. You couldn't have lived in this world of thick boots and young women, too loud rock and roll and saying I love you for the sake of saying it. I still feel your smile, though, hear the morning cough and the rub of your stiff stubble, still smell the tinny grease on your clothes after an honest day's work. I smell your cigarettes and coffee late at night. I can't forget, forgive that all we seemed to catch were ugly suckers, catfish and carp, and you lived, loved every minute of it. I resent you for living it rather than reading it, and that a dove, 113 Ecotone: reimagining place a cloud, a dragonfly, were all the same: moving. I still don't understand, so tell me to pay attention when I notice there's absolutely no breeze, and nothing, not even leaves, stir. Tell me it's okay when I'm startled by the suddenness of memory, by the realization the river is different even in itself, current and depth, moving and silent. 114 ...


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pp. 113-114
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