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The Year After His Suicide


ISSUE:  Winter 2012

We have gone through
so many revisions of the prelude
that we no longer know
who stood together in the storm.

I like the first and seventh versions:
the sun broke through the trees and the moist
furtive air moved around us
and in us and from us and
carried us
into these exact distances,
these confusions and omissions.

The things we wish we’d said
turn to milkweed seeds.
In them the property of flight conflicts
with the idea of taking root.

I bequeath all the grey and tender mornings
of where we are now
to what occasionally wakes us.

When I strain for a final conveyance
all I hear is the cold applause
of October rain over asphalt.
Since that river ran through our hands
even the endings
don’t have endings.

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