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Blue Song

July 20, 2012

“To you it is sameness
and toil,” she told him, “but
to me it’s what I like, how
it’s always been.” But
what she doesn’t know, what
he does not know except
wordlessly, in splashes
of memory, is that he, we
all, inhabit loss. The bright
noisy wetness of the past
still flows down the same
mountain, but all we feel, all
we hear or see, is the gloved
din of beerdrinkers, telling
foamy stories into the night.

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