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REMEMBERING HIM

Even to touch
these delicate filaments without pain is possibly
not possible. Scalpel and spade
cry out their innocence. As I watch
treebark creases with waterdrops.
Inefficient.

Unwritten letters burn. Correspondence lies
along the diagonals from love to apathy,
and lies between graced notes
toward an interruption of language.

Memory scrapes
through a hardened rind; grazes
permitted gentleness.
Presence that was; I have
no images to declare.

Except, perhaps
an evening gesture,
some voice, a clear tone, barely missing
the true concern, but not care.
Residues only; yet they nourish.

      — Bob Elliott