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The high thin clouds of memory persist
blown like stirred like coffee dregs,
stirred like gnats by a summer wind
then the scent might waft, might recall:
Oh, o recognise this
this is an old acquaintance with
with whom i’d lost touch
but i remember her face
i remember the scent and line of her neck
i remember the smoke upon the air
the smoke upon my skin
the smoke about my eyes
the cauterizing, the shattered glass breathing
the every breath a bar-fight
the every breath a cat fight
Did i not expect another
did i not wonder at another coming
then i would fear not the setting of the pain
i would not worry at its going away
i would not shake at its loss.

say something nice ... or not

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