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8.05.2006
Outside the River House
I am southern in such a way: blue salt courses through my veins, enters the house leaning on the river- beats against the windows calling someonehome. My memory
is a torn green apple caught in the tree-bones like a stubborn thorn or a throbbing nerve. It lives and so do I before it falls, outside the river house, in the swollen, sweet-grass.
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