the fossil record

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1st annual print edition:

June 20, 2004

#36

You will never remember how to spell
Her name, or the way her face
Shines in the dusk, or even tell

If what lingers in your eye’s a trace
Of something real, or just a thing
You hoped and hope for. The place

And time are sunk in the flood. Nothing
Happened you can be sure. The one
Who taught your bow at once to sing

That one is gone.

—R. S. Deese