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The pale grub of the moon
keeps staring...

Naked
flats of mud,
water-riven
and shivering,
pull
at the receding tide
as great welts
of memory
cross-hatch
the goose-bumped
bay.

Black sky
cracks
against blue-black sea...

susurrus
of wind
through
Eucalyptus...

I lean
into
the falling
smell
of death.

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Catherine Munsee

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