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[Poetry]

REMAINDER
by John Ganiard

The gun we found in the sand
this summer: the stainless steel
barrel; the bolt, sight,
receiver—intact.

But, the wood,
the body--
rotted out long ago.

We should have known,
then, to head home.

The storm coming in
off the lake, the rain
arcing east in bows,
felt patient.

I assessed
there was not much separation
between a vision
and the real thing—knowing

that new feature
further down the shore
was driftwood
and running anyway;
waking up, now,

not with my mouth
in your hair, but
on the interstate.

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