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Wednesday, July 6, 2011


by Catherine Partin

Steel beneath your freckles in every photograph that frames my mirror image,
I mailed you the end of a thin thread stretching from here to Rochester, all for nothing,
Sullen silence on your end of the rusty
Tin-can telephone but I holler across cornfields, time zones, the dark shadow in your bed
Every September you blow out the candles and die again
Rowing as far as your boat can carry you

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