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After some surgeries and a few 

losses, something began to crack, 

like a cement under a sledge,

though sometimes it’s like turning 

a cap onto a pipe in the dark, 

with water dripping on my feet, 

trying to stay square and catch

a rusty thread, as if our lives 

hung by threads as they always 

and never have. Now something’s 

watching me like a phantom 

suburban coyote, one that lurks 

behind warehouses, near railroads, 

snagging pets or feasting on compost 

and eyeing the strange ones who come 

and go without hearing or sniffing. 

Unseen beyond pines, she’s

heard our cars start each day and 

endured their foul fumes while 

waiting for me to once forget 

where I’m going, to welcome 

the joy of incipient dawn and look

back as though into a mirror.