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Jane Blaikie


Kathy’s public service job breaks      up, refloats
with longer hours.       She works
into the night, into         the early morning. At
home, the         mechanics of Dave’s
illness, its            rosters and machines, its
chemistry of                     jar and tube,
fall into                    splintered
time. The                     towels hang
colour-                               coded, for
Dave’s face,                        his body, the
hands of                      visitors. A space
grows that is and                 will not be Dave


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