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Poetry Magnum Opus
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The Curator's Confession

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And then I swept the dust away
with Jenny's trusted broom. Besides
the pot was not a fitting tomb.
No antique could bury that lust
for laughter, thirst for gin, that spice
of briny tales. An urn's no shrine
to foster ghosts, to web a hush
of her. She was the crash of waves
wetting the shore, the rush for more.
No ornament could bin our Jen.
And when I swept her dust to air,
and when I smashed the artefact,
I heard that blue blush of sea
dashing pebbles against my door.

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