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These next few poems are from
"Chorus," the middle section.

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"Dear Missing."

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"A channel by land that
gestures and juts doesn't touch.

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The water rushing shelters
every sound I shout out into it.

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The form of the shore is
lost to the counting of sand.

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The count is lost to the sound.

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If I could, I'd rearrange us.

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Shove selves, shell
letters, shelve us.

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Water surfacing itself inside
ourselves, as ever as yours.

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