i would beat the dust from her
like a rug at noon--
like a rug in the yard
against the sun hanging.
i would beat her with
racket or with rod
and, like the dust from a mummy,
all that is not-her
will fly like so much sand
into the forgiving air,
the breeze like balm
breathing the not-me away.
this is my mercy--

(what i really want to do is touch
her forehead with the gentle tip of
a finger, gently push, and from her
skin see blow these particles, as
though this small gesture were an
unforeseen gust.)


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