Elegy

This autumn finds you

removed from anyone who knew.

Only the maple is at your mercy;

its leaves crunch around the stone

with enough respect.  

I no longer panic about the cracks.

The uncomfortable damp.

Something from the basement

is buried with secrets.

The dreams have stopped.

Your eyes stay in their sockets;

two dark-stained walnuts,

bitter and tenacious.

All the dead are pious.

It suits you.

tk/October 2014



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