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a chapter begins with a creek bank and a sweeping uplift
from ochre stained swimsuit to a place anxiously close to the silver sun
but not quite, because this is a memory after all,
and the algae-smooth perches of baked moons (and i say moons
because the jagged rocks only stuck out on the walk back)
keep the perspective precarious
but this is what you jolted me to
when you mentioned the dangers of the river, the seaside, the lake –
they are highways in their own goddamn right, y'know,
full of sand and minerals and barefoot freedom tracks on car mats
that lodge in cracks of whatever youth was meant to feel like before i became this
and i ask
is that when i have grown old: when all the technicolour came before me?
and if so, can i die before i pass away?
a chapter begins with the sun at noon, not because it put itself there;
see, i've learned that it doesn't get anywhere at all
unless i put myself in its way and stick out a thumb
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