I've adopted certain of your gestures
refining them as acts of memory
a sort of stillness in some ways you moved
that is both elegant and sexy
in a way I
cannot
understand
my lines fall
short of it
it *is*
and so,
quite often
simple
processes
like putting off
a coat and
rolling it
into a rucksack
bring back
your presence
and the joy I have
lost breaks into me
like cold rain which I
receive
shelterless
today it's an old fashioned signpost,
two arms of three intact,
pointing from nowhere to nowhere
in an arrowhead triangle
of marigolds, daisies, docks and heaping grass;
but there're other things of great variety;
this has stout bolts and persistent paint,
the lettering clear; the top like a small church spire
clouds deny gravity
above encircling hedges
at the world's top
speechless
grief does not need
a body or a loss
it is both
one walks forgetful
a mouth within
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