By Lesley-Anne Evans
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straight through sage brush,
bisecting high country.
Pilings on the dock are circled
by high water horizons,
like pearls on a privileged neck.
We launch the dingy to the middle of the lake,
cut the motor and
dandle summer tanned arms over the gunwale.
Your fingers dip in foreign water
then graze my forearm,
a benediction for contrite skin
and I see how drifting south
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