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Before the Quake
In that rift in the chapel
between Adam and the outstretched
finger of his maker,
I saw cotton shirts, a week's worth hanging from
the line next door,
and our neighbour on a ladder cleaning spouting with
a trowel and a hose.
From up there he could not see
his child, her palms
grubby from gunk piling up on the lawn.
She was standing under
all those sleeves, high-fiving his cuffs.
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