Letter From Home



/ death

On getting news of a death.

I read of your death: a sentence

buried among paragraphs of nothing

in particular. I staggered like a drunk,


taking a punch. Losing you,

though I’d never possessed you,

was the first time I felt


broken. You were just

a girl until those words, and now

a generation has grown and gone and I


no longer see your face clearly, but still,

the sense memory of you and me

talking by the chilled cabinet

in a small-town supermarket,


still sometimes finds me

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