For NPFK
We grew with clothespins on baseball cards on rims,
in ditches and cowfields, interested in
mailboxes and bridges. There was death to litters,
but none felt less then the last, each was a mourn
we still felt in the morning, which sleep would not dismiss.
She is mine; an appreciation for moons and
foxes and boxes and paint by numbers. We sat sleepily
slumped watching tv in a way that makes
me want moments more deeply, deeper, since.
Her father passes as I've passed phone calls hiding from
memories and --
On a Georgia coast is a big house that held a marriage
and jeweled fingers and vodka in crystal glasses before -
I thought I'd see it once, now, all - all of it is
a shell on a beach I never touched, an empty abalone,
which is morning, which is sleep, which is either black or
every.
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