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The Album

There is the spirit of being nineteen,

when I am in the heart of August with

chopped brown hair and purely

invincible — we are somewhere,

picking blackberries or swirling in a

carnival ride, and just outside

the sun is tuscan yellow and I

can see dust settle in its light.

Here we are precious and safe,

no picture is tinged with blue and

time does not exist. This is

well before we wave summer goodbye

and dive into the silver

breakwater of winter, waiting for

a low-lake gentleness and life to

reassure itself.

 
 
 

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