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I do not think of you with sea-green eyes, backlit
by August sun. I do not think of you with the sticky-
silk of orchid stems against your arm or how you held the dead
bird we found on the beach between two stones. I do not think
of you as instant is chiseled: the flamed shape of your hand
on my shoulder. I do not think of you in the half-
shadow of dusk even though you are viable light against
how things will end. I do not think of you as all
the cavities of the tactile. I do not think of you;
it is tundra here and you could not stand the cold.