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[28] Milky Way I’m almost at the end Of the bottle of rubbing alcohol You left half full When you died I clean my face with it Sometimes Just to smell something Put to too harsh a purpose. The garden you dug and planted French intensive in sandy soil Paths of beach stones Vegetables watered with a warm dipper Is unmade, back to Bare ground Where months before you died You lay in bed listening to the sea. Milky Way Separated the mortal husband From his star wife The child From the mother who spins. In any tale One of the Pleiades Comes down to bathe. In our story It is the wife and child Who remain Left with the bookcase you made Of driftwood Saving your paperweight— A red brick smoothed by waves. ...

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