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Dusk
Futile
to speak of us now
that we are erased. Your name,
as if it lived under moon rock,
frostbitten. Even in the bullet holes
of my complaints, all is
unutterable. Yesterday I wanted
to erect a memorial. Post photos amongst
bees and weeds at the beach that no longer
castles my life. I chose instead to watch a few
disassembling clouds slim into spirals
and fade where the hearth
of dusk is hidden. The moon's dark
side begs for navigation
like a psychomantium where a spirit
is held. One beam rubs
light beside the vase's shadow
where I've placed white camelias
on the table's white doily,
as if moonlight and fresh flowers
could bring me home
consoled.
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