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As a kid, I heard and said,

“Take it for granite,” as in

something safe to stand on in

any weather, as in

something that could hold

a phrase forever.

 

White stone at the quarry turns

the quarry water green

like it’s a deep dish of uncle Franz’s

“champagne deathray” (fizzy

water, chartreuse, and grain).

 

So much Franz

claims not to remember

but the recipe holds

like chains of nucleatides

or one bone in a tail

hiding beneath the smooth skin

of everyone in the family.

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