Wednesday, July 18, 2012


--for Randy

Though we unplug
your body from
the machine, our
memories live on. Things
were what they were.

We could have been better, but
loved each other none
the less.

There are more tears
shed in life
than death—ruing
our failures more
than our
facts, which we’d own if
we could only
believe them.

This sorrow
isn’t for our sins,
but the absence
our memory makes more
acute: the sound of
your missing voice,
the space of
your empty body.

As usual, it’s only ourselves
we can think
through, as our selves
seam everything
into us, then

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