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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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