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Michael Hurley appreciates you reading his poems.

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Michael Hurley

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Everyone is searching for an origin;
                                 time runs down.
                                 When the homeless clip their toenails,
                                 Pittsburgh ticks like a clock.
                                                       Death I’ve heard
                                                       is the dusting of an artifact.
                                                                  Keep peeling onions.
                                                                  Keep digging for seeds.

           Just a bit of cinnamon and a green chair
                                                       from the lobby.
                                                       My daddy was a cactus, momma

                                            was a prune. All I have now are ghost stories.

                                            Said my daddy was a driveway
                                            to turn around in. Momma was a cul de sac.

                      Brush off the dust
                                 with a fossil brush.
                                            Can’t you see
                                            this is a funeral?
                                            Can’t you see
                                                       this is a window
                                                       without glass?

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