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Buried at sea


Without your body to stretch out on straw

turned so the feet point to the door,

no chin to prop with the King James

no chest on which to place a plate of salt –


Will all the looking glasses stay masked?

Will all the cats remain locked from the house?

A cross painted on the inside of the door,

a lamp lit between sundown and rise –


its flame bowing to the Pacific seabed

its flame kept from wither and quench.


For eight nights and days, will they sit

watching your bed in the tawny light?

Knocking back ground meal and ale,

no child to look, small hand from your flesh.




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