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CHAD FORET GARDENS OF THE GULF Catfish thrash to Belafonte as sun gathers in the softness of a squirrel tail. Birkenstocks haunt the beach. It's a paradise for wasps, the cosmetic track house shutters. Your wife's bones foretell the weather. You crave crab merus, sweet & second only to claw, but always eat the orange. Dusk comes down with its secrets & your eyes untangle. It is supposed to be a buck moon, but you've never seen a brighter one. Raise the hammock, raise the loquats, fruit like a family of New Year's possums in North Carolina. The dying think always of the dead, but these trees, from sweet to stem & seed, are here because you always loved them. |