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When at last I found her floating, trifles of her bones denoting a roe between equatorial tides with an image burned into her eyes. A future thought, a liberal whim: a shallow place where all can swim. For all the kids small handkerchiefs to clean their lungs and mangled limbs. So lay down your heads, pull in your nets, forget your pains itâs for the best. You never knew they meant so much, their tired eyes youâve missed enough. Donât pluck the field of forget-me-nots. Donât think these deep loquacious thoughts. Donât crane your neck and look for me. Iâll bring you home, weâll leave the sea. In the front yard, thereâs an oak tree and a garden where your bones will rest. Now youâre hiding and youâre haunting. See you someday, donât wince when you see the light.