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14 Aubade฀with฀a฀Book฀and฀the฀Rattle฀from฀a฀String฀of฀Pearls The฀color฀of฀the฀trees฀is฀bleached฀at฀this฀hour and฀you฀left฀a฀book฀on฀the฀table,฀face฀down with฀its฀spine฀reaching฀for฀air.฀I฀thought the฀book฀might฀hate฀you฀for฀that.฀With฀my฀pre-dawn฀coffee and฀mouth฀full฀of฀sleep฀syllables฀I฀whistled฀the฀title, held฀the฀book฀in฀my฀arms฀like฀something฀would฀reach฀for฀it and฀carry฀it฀to฀another฀galaxy. I฀would฀go฀on฀preaching฀to฀windows about฀how฀the฀screens฀needed฀replacing,฀or how฀the฀dust฀motes฀settle฀the฀shelves.฀You฀were฀in฀agony yet฀you฀would฀not฀speak฀about฀things฀such฀as฀age and฀the฀body฀gestures฀that฀come฀to฀claim฀your฀mornings. Neck-sure,฀arm-sure,฀I฀think฀about฀you฀and฀your฀book coming฀to฀some฀agreement฀.฀.฀.฀some฀place฀of฀rest. Though฀the฀mica฀glittered฀like฀meteors฀.฀.฀.฀though฀you฀exhaled circles฀in฀the฀dark฀of฀your฀skin,฀you฀entered a฀slow฀recessional.฀It฀was฀a฀kind฀of฀starvation, knowing฀the฀sun฀would฀come฀with฀its฀larks and฀cars฀stuttering฀past฀your฀house.฀You฀in฀your฀bed shut฀tight฀against฀the฀tide฀of฀sound฀refusing฀to฀believe that฀the฀book฀held฀your฀world฀in฀such฀simple฀connotations. A฀book฀is฀a฀book,฀you฀said. I฀take฀that฀for฀granted฀sometimes.฀Perhaps you฀were฀right฀to฀press฀its฀mouth฀to฀the฀table. My฀imaginings฀sometimes฀take฀me away฀from฀you.฀So฀morning฀paces 15 like฀an฀old฀man—mutterings฀of฀a฀book฀title I’ve฀forgotten฀.฀.฀.฀tip฀of฀the฀tongue. Each฀room฀carried฀us฀from฀clock฀to฀clock.฀Each฀tick an฀earful฀about฀ourselves.฀God฀knows, the฀way฀night฀moves฀its฀shoes฀from฀side฀to฀side or฀how฀day฀wrestles฀syllables฀from฀us฀in฀our฀sleep. What฀am฀I฀trying฀to฀say?฀Dawn฀on฀the฀spine฀of฀the฀book simply฀stood฀for฀you฀many฀years฀ago.฀I฀thought฀of฀the฀denim฀dress you฀had฀saved฀for฀gardening.฀You฀had฀asked฀if฀I฀could remove฀your฀necklace.฀I฀fumbled฀at฀the฀clasp and฀touched฀one฀of฀the฀ridges฀of฀your฀spine as฀the฀necklace฀broke฀and฀the฀days฀fell฀around฀us. ...

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