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SHORE The deeper I walk into the field, the higher, the wetter the bluestem, the more leaves flash their weed-tangled silver. Hidden everywhere, swaying, thistle and nettles bristle, all spine and stinger. From ankle to thigh they scratch their names for tadpoles that turn to beetles, eels to roots, and fish to mice. Now touch this slash, that sting. The mouth can’t speak them, but the skin, that strange tongue, starts to mutter.  ...

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