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Surviving the Wreck
by Keneth P. Gurney

I scour my finger prints
with a pumice stone,
remove all identifiable traces
and the dead weight
you left between the ridges.

In the upper left corner of the day
a spider sack fattens,
waits for the next warm spell
to explode.

Up in the attic, a trunk
disgorges my grandfather’s hat
and silk waistcoat,
which I love to wear
for the mirror—a new bird
struts its finery.

For now, I thank God
for keeping the bed warm,
for filling the hole
you left on the other side.


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