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memories, ghosts, dreams 127 Maybe You Are Here Ann McGovern Maybe you are here after all. Ask the Mexican sun. There is no calendar that marks your death. You signed no contract for immortality. Yet here in San Miguel, church bells ring your name from dawn to deep night. You are the courtyard treasures hiding behind carved doors, the lush orange trees, the feathery fountains. Inch by inch I seek you among the cobblestones, feel your skin on textured walls. In this high place of steep hills and dry wind, my breath struggles, never wanting any other air except that which you breathed. ...

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