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Death is the prevalent theme
for my pastor, for my father, and for a friend.
i find your name carved quiet by the windowsill
in an empty room.
i find half your coat hanging wayside where once his coat was, too.
father told me you too keep your dentures in a cup like grandfather’s.
that you were there as he packed his bags and warbled off
for the hospital. you didn’t talk to him then
but still we knew. or so he did:
he caught you smiling by the desks where he worked.
i find your photographs by the balcony,
and your footprints by the garden. bits of your
hair by the pavement next to candy wrappers and
together we pick up the pieces you left behind. and sew. and stitch
ourselves together. open our mouths in silence.
we wait for your next visit.
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