For C.F.
Ten Years
I turn
seeing (or thinking
I have) too late.
Gone (was it only
a hitch in my breath?)
Your flesh turned to
leaves (something
adrift on the light)
words a clothesline
strung tight between
two trees (shifting
lightly)
figments of what
I(mis)understood it to be
each time
I turn
a new
(found),
impression
of not
(knowing)
now.
G.
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