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| The motionless ceiling fan in the dead of summer or |
| the cartilage that tears away at my septum or |
| the way summer carried himself into autumn |
| dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt. |
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| The last song that played in the jukebox at the bar |
| on the end of the street when the locals went home |
| after endless games of shooting pool and gossip. |
| The smell of salt air on rustic New England roads. |
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| The red of the maple leaf before the first frost or |
| the three ice cubes remaining in that empty glass |
| on the counter before the bartender discarded it |
| without contemplating its history just for a moment. |
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| The Jesus that followed me to class at the castle |
| on the edge of town. The accent in his voice or |
| the poetry that dripped from his pen in couplets or |
| the smell of Portuguese bread baking in the alleys. |
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| The way his head now turns when I look him in the eye or |
| the sound of bodies releasing a seven year sigh or |
| his calloused fingers as they trace the outline of my lips or |
| the coffee grounds that connect evening to morning. |
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