Her smile's a relief
to those clothes- tight around her.
Where she walks people appear,
just as I fear! Yearsterday a new, clear view,
everything as is- her an' I
never the only ones left in the hallway.
Though her sunshine hair seems to chip and
laud! Like a bird- I refuse to be in- around her, my thumb still
skin slicking on the chance coin.
Purse your lips she, and I might too,
I won't know why.
Under a pillow, her eyes finite flight.
That so, I see a way, through solid-bent objects,
a new place, a hand creases- touching, swinging. But my
solitude: my choosing, whose dry tears dry on a slip of my creased will.
At last everyone is my imagining.
Now, your sunset skirt, seasons changing,
we cannot share a shifting step;
my funeral ends with the pathetic bag-pipe player-
at least he gets a relief.
Play, play, play on-
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