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Landscape Without Figures

The clouds inhale and all the stars

disperse. When you die, your death

 

swims around the lake. There should be

a color to paint the sky when someone

 

forgets your name. There should be

a path of life reserved for the wandering.

 

I might have known you better, if

I wasn’t so attched to my own weather.

 

Remember me, I said, back when we

were alive? Those were unkempt days.


Posted 11/24/14
from my forthcoming chapbook from Dancing Girl Press, How to Live Forever.
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