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I thought that she might be Morocco, but I was the one
who stayed more still and she was the one who drifted.
She passed her tongue over me until the first rushes
of the Atlantic came between us. I went home to
the Annapolis Valley to sit between the North
and the South Mountain, the northern-most
vestiges of Appalachia, the long tired
thin blue scarof mountains left behind
in the wake of Nova Scotia's
separation with Spain.
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