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I don't own an exquisite way to move around in the night
                            —Doug Benezra

It occurs to me that,
when I die,
they might find the necklace
I dropped behind the bed
and wonder
how long it was there,
and whether I’d missed it.
But will they care
about my favorite color,
my long-range plans,
or my habit of searching myself
for signs of rust?

Source: Poetry (March 2010)

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This poem originally appeared in the March 2010 issue of Poetry magazine

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