Even the white of the dying sun
Avoids my bedroom window,
Another Sunday afternoon
Dissolved within a rectangle eight by ten.
The neighbors passed
Away overseas. I saw
The ship’s shadow cast off,
Left beneath a front door
No one thought to disembark: blank, handwritten,
Like the intention of their goodbyes.
I miss their casual violence, the staccato
Of youth unrealized, each cry
Transmuted to fill the hole above my head.
Perhaps I shall visit them, follow starstiched
The longitudes of our deceit.


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