— Casey FitzSimons
There sat the basket, emptied
of their clothes from the hamper.
With a prickle of alarm he realized
he’d washed away the last
of her DNA.
He might have brought
her shirt to his face.
He dreaded gathering
the pale filaments, collapsing
their mystery, but he lifted the flap
of the dryer’s lint trap, fingered
the diaphanous fluff that clung
to the wobbly screen.