And as it is right before dusk, the shell is very clear--
its small ridged spine above the echoing, turned-down interior.
While the whiplike winds lengthen
over the shell's stillness and the nandinas' quiver, one could say
the shell's marblelike flame
has become the central force of the yard, like a sharp pain
or stab one feels and then ignores
when something is, like you, simultaneously beautiful and vanishing.
---Christine Garren
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