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The way each intersection in a city where you’ve lived a while becomes layered with personal archeology.
The cafe that replaced a liquor store you avoided, and the friend (or lover) you broke up with there,
and the way on the day of the big fire you
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That face reflected in the glass
cannot be mine,
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Kiln dried mummies, landscape of once were alpacas. / Now all the wool is farmed in Alva
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