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PUBLISHED: March 2, 2020


Like heat he seeks them,
            my son, thirsting 
to learn those

he don’t know
            are his dead—
some with his name

carved in the stones
            he leaps on
& between. Their fake

flowers will outlive
            even doubt. 
Beside the boneyard

six men nail & saw
            together a house, 
their lumber

sliced even, still
            golden. They build
a kind of heaven,

chipping in—something
            all yours, the neighbors
honking hello 

as they roll by,
            no rush, envious—
wondering under

their breath how long
            will paradise take
& whether you’ll finish

in this lifetime.



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