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Here’s a poem that was published in Whirligig a few years ago. It’s short. Hope you dig it.

Pointing

You fell asleep next to me,
your hand closed on my chest
except for one finger
which pointed across the room,
toward the door.
I stared at the worried brow
of your knuckle,
the ragged nail,
its moon setting in a violet sky.
Just one finger unbent and separate,
one rib floating away
from the chest of your fist,
the first move you make
when you let something go.

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