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The Coin While you were alive and thought well of me there was always a coin in my fish-mouth off in the night or the day lake. Now the little coin doesn’t need itself . . . October morning October morning— sea lions barking on the off-shore rock Autumn evening— seals’ heads nosing through the pink Pacific I gather myself onto my day raft, your voice lost under me: first other tongue I heard my left hand I heard my left hand love for my right hand white through the screen door just as through the summer elm you two years ago in the bardo moved into the room we once had feeling for. new poems 13 ...

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