Letter From Home

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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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