Bringing an unwanted couch from backyard to bulkhead,
he was four painted steps above me when I felt its full weight
jamming into my throat, for a moment choking on something
other than disbelief, wondering if it would leave a bruise,
some proof of our undoing. I move through my grief
by rearranging the deck chairs, awkwardly sliding
a heavy file cabinet across a loose rug, its contents
begging for a shredder. I move by dancing under cover
of darkness, resurrecting books of days and poems,
breaking the surface, finally coming up for air.


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