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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