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Moments About

I’m writing poems to the echoes.
Life was here, but caught the eight-fifteen
somewhere. Sat in the day coach listening
to the same sound that opened
the petals of a country. Only sadness remains,
guest unwilling to go home, full
of anecdotes about. And in the rooms
I remember, words are arranged like furniture.
Easy chair for contemplation, coffee table
a wake-me-up call. I’m writing lyrics
for the shadows so they can sing.
A choir standing on the rift between
imagination and the dishes.