No leaf over the pit
but a deep sky
ruffled by a white gull
You would have loved
the silence
Short parade, short prayer
and a tall priest
alone at the grave’s head
You would have scorned
more
At my cousin’s house
whiskey and words
and sudden voicelessness
You would have talked
us under the table
Later, in a box
of drunkenness
I lower myself to bed
and in black sleep
show you the snapshots
the sun through your pines
high tide in the river
quail around the feeder
You would have chosen
the children
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