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Swimming at Night I go back to the river, crossing the tangle of buckthorn and trailing bittersweet. Moonlight and the scrotal cold, the mayflies, unmoored, drift with me. I remember making love at the river’s edge and after, how she sang a small song, the last I heard her sing. Wire embedded in trees, rusted where a fence line failed. The heron stalks the shallows. Not even my body frightens her away. Where are you bound, mayflies adrift, elegant moon-deaf bird? My dead will not come home. If water asks that I go to the sea I must go with it. 59 ...

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