not the parched desiccation of an amphibian
suddenly left to dry in the torrid heat of isolation—
nor, of course, as she described;
not a craven obsession with a perfect past, rocking
a breathing carcass in the quiet like a cold-turkey addict.
It was more a curious brittle feeling
as if I were a bit of coral set on a high shelf,
trying desperately to recall the feeling of being alive.
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