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i like to keep seashells in my purse, tokens of the ocean, gifts from the womb made of curls and of spirals, seashell reminders of the coast, the edges, the liminal so close, the coast and la haute mer and your tip of the toes pointed, body in a crescent moon, curved inward and downward, forward, plunged, but no more than a pen, carving eulogies on your chest and on your back, with lights so dim, a canvas so blank, and skin smooth as scales but without reflection.
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