Dead all this time

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There are those days I think I hear the clocks stop

afternoons tripping over one another to be over

the stutter of the phone, rippling into the house

as if it could gladden us with your voices.

 

The wind would like to blow you from our fingers,

but it cannot – these joints exactly yours

these eyes, too.  Even dogs smile in their generations

with memories of all that food gladdening their stomachs

in their one thought world.

 

What has it been like, being dead all this time?

We have seen the sun rise up and get swallowed into the hills

traced ourselves along all sorts of highways

in cardinal directions – like yours – and failed to fill those diaries

because the way life curls about keeping spin and cycle

growing into changeable fluxing continuous.

 

Now, we look at our photographs and see

it does come to good. If I could introduce you to your offspring

what smiles they would make for you.

 

 

 

 

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