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NATHAN CURNOW denial the chill of the river is my rushed baptism I knead the water as I knead the fog draped in white I saw a figure on the bridge hurl a package to a lonely splash the shadow stared down directly at me I suggested a fencepost perched the sound of running each panicked step ashamed of this secret deliverance the bag is sinking in final disgrace I wade deeper toward the stash sawn at the waist like a magician's assistant wrists presenting the water's surface hauling to the bank frost smeared with mud my fingers ache upon this knot of denial I have salvaged a weight a cold riddle of meat the vessels in my hands a placenta