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washing up

There is nothing of you here
in this room
in this new home new life
there is nothing of you here in my lonely
new world but what I’ve brought
with me in the year we’ve spent unfriendly.
Just music and memories
pungent calendar squares
a certain smell on a certain scrap of paper
not to mention the love still
working its way out of my skin as I drain it
clean
pore by pore I
empty you
out of me.

There is nothing of you here
in these hands
that I cup gently over open space
there is nothing of you between my
fingers, but paint and old sorry mud-
I marvel at the dirtiness of time.
Each line
filled with angry black soil from a planet
long ago. I only know so much of
that place now. You never visit.
When the sun sets I suppose I should
wash up…
but then you’d be stuck
in the drain.



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