1130
4.ii.23
4.35
they have left us
for ghost writing
simple as
words in a pile
a touch and fade
ivy up treeside
drawer of such socks
no darn
the dead again
they have left us
still
no choice in the matter
mean nothing to
we continue the conversation
namelessly
it’s light pours from
their breath is now distributed
their clothes are such as soil
a shorthand for simple past they’ve been
now continuously gone
a terrible ending and then
we must all sing with them
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