First mournings-

You spoke of David, and the way he breathed,
so I turned up the volume;
there were crop reports on the radio,
when I wanted Pagannini in the air.
You opened windows and turned on fans,
as if to dispel the scent,
but he will be here like weather,
a stifling heat, a lulling rain.

"He's too close, he's too close."

"He left, he's . . . it's quiet in here, isn't it?"


When you spoke, you forgot
who loved him best.





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