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by Michael Escoubas Long after mid-day shadows lengthen and the wine's bouquet dissipates down the corridor essence of lilacs laces sea-salt air I remember a moment shared not to be recovered but ensconced like a message in a bottle washed up by blue sea lapping the shore we live in the continuous mystery of now— day runs on without the scent of you, wine, tables where we toasted now vacant, shadowed by the arched trellis hanging heavy like a canopy of desire— everything speaks a language of silence: without you, how loud the silence
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