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REMEMBERING SITA
by Paul Pines

At night I understand
your nails as frozen ponds
whose depth cannot be measured
and it makes me cry,

So I stand and repeat,
           “Standing…standing,”
walk and repeat,
            “Walking…walking”
until I am purified
by 16 kinds of knowledge
like cool fingers on my brow.

Then I think again of your nails
the tender purple ring
around their white half-moons

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