struggle to open, sticky beads
like sweat on the tight buds.
If I could get close enough,
be still enough, I’d hear
some sound inside,
straining
All afternoon, unable to think, I drifted
in and out of sleep, whatever story
was in my mind — never a true dream-sliding
off course, then swerving back.
Meanwhile, the sky
began to clear, such brightness
suggesting sleep was wrong,
I’d get nothing from it.
The fist of a bud sprung
into petals is almost
a hand-your hand-opening
then setting
itself down.
I can see
it’s hard. As we stood around your bed
we said it: what hard work
dying seemed to be. But you
were already far away, deep inside,
no telling if what we said or thought
was like anything
you might have wanted us to say or understand.
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