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Behind The Mews By Taylor Graham The first time you heard doves in the morning through the window of your cousin's house, you thought it was the sound first-love forces into fig trees as they grow, into their leaves and fruit, so they drop, not quite ripened, not nearly perfect: a curtained sound of ache from the brighter, blinding side of glass. Your cousin tugged a pillow over her eyes, and sighed for sleep and missed the moment, like something that passes every morning, too common to remark. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007