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ISSUE:  Autumn 1999

 The sea piles in against the shore that grinds more slowly. Salt
explodes. Sprinkle it on roast beef or corn just before you turn
them into you. Extremes, edges: tears, sex-sweat tastes briny.
Sewn into a field, it leaves soil barren; scattered over roads, its
heat clears the way. You can only move on. A nurse’s nipple is
washed in salt or a few grains are sprinkled directly on the
newborn’s tongue. All the senses wake up. Everyone’s left a
little thirsty.


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