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Moss "Lord, keep my memory green." --Charles Dickens We agreed over lunch -- a meal of tight clams and sagging chins to return to that hill -- where views rubbed Vaseline on wounds. Your garden shears still out and splayed beside a shrub, both orange from a rusty rain. Their scissor blades were women's thighs roped down by rapists some would call the ordinary pose of fate. The sand was too soft for my feet. Someone else's station wagon lined the drive; these memories were black gangrene a bottle tried to amputate, but only seemed to multiply. I heard you say, "Don't drink to drown the bobbing ghost." The ocean sat just yards away. "A school of depth," you always quipped. "Dew just means the world sweats." I pitched your photo in the waves, watched four corners disappear. An open sea massaged us both. I miss your hands. Prongs they were for books and pies, without large jewels to weigh them down. Your tongue flew South where sugarcane corrected salt. This was "Taps" without a horn. A castle crushed but still recalled in stains of moss, their emerald shades the balm on rock on avalanche.
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