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Something Like Venice

There are remains, even after the mind
is scrubbed raw as an old surgeon’s hands
even after the skilled scalpel fails to find
a remnant, there is something still that stands

behind memory before thought beneath
the past the future the never-always
present too. It is a shade, or a sheath
of wending color, coiled on silver trays

like Murano mosaics in that shop
you swore you’d return to, somehow never
seen again. World within a round raindrop –
the numinous union no name can sever.

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