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Like Brie Meat locker death is a shivering place made mostly of hooks, torn, torn guts of equipoise. I was plastic towel racks with lousy screws. My walls of strength were all charades. There it was: the hailstone, bigger than the street it hit. I should have been there to hang and tilt paintings of your last drawn breath. From windows of an empty house, a sunrise looks like sauerkraut, sunsets mimic refried beans. There was hidden color here in splinters of remaining wood. You went like brie exposed to air -- too fast for tongues to lick the richness from the rind. I was busy with naive, asking for the picnic back, coaxing tulips through hard ice. Later I would gather crumbs inside a poem. Its checkered tablecloth for bags to seal away unwanted fumes. My visits short and squatty rites -- crew cuts on a shaggy dog I was too lazy to bathe. Sagging corn husks of your hands were meant to be the braided art that dresses up a lonely field. Even in your suffering, gifts you left deserved my lids forked open in this wilderness.
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