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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 4, December 2015

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Bill Gottlieb
Cobb, California, USA


Collected

18 months after your death

A sand dollar is a skeleton. Often broken, off-white, a cough of foam, tough and delicate. Whole, it’s imprinted with a star, an object of old light, a past, arriving finally. A token for the ocean, for the hoary hussy hissing, shouting, riding the earth.

I pick one up and put it in my pocket, as if I could buy your body back. Your body’s why I’m walking—to the low waters of your wish; to where I wallowed in your showered ashes; to the mouth of the Ten Mile River, eating suffocative sea.

a murmuration
of pipers
sings its
shape
away

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