I snuck the two in red wax,
tilting to the ether,
so slim.
Splintered wood stands stuck,
yet still santal, still sweet.
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My mother used to bleach sheets
to yellow translucency, many milky moons
stitched together, skin blend,
shells on wrinkle beaches
freckled with kohl rim particulates
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With every stride of the tide
and every salt-pillar wave, dissipating;
nothing but the foam belonged to us
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