MEMORIAM
The one it was - as always - that got away.
The one that disappeared. The figment in the
reflection, the water at the piers. The old
country guy, so old to die, with the
turkey-wattled neck, singing his heart out.
Some ancient love who died as he cried.
-
It's always like that somewhere : Death
rides a pale horse, swings by momentarily,
sweeps out the arm to catch whomever,
and swiftly keeps running on. We lose our
mettle in the best of our avoidance. Too
late, too sorry, too sad and too soon.
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