to Sia
I didn't think I'd be using this poem, written on another occasion, to say goodbye to a dear friend.
(...)
It's perspective. Though. Going back
to that touch of a hand.
Nothing silky about it: linen cloth,
earthen sheet, solid mud,
And, then, the knocked off, cracked
parchment of this soil. Or that. And a handful smell of.
Remember the old, the leftover. The lineage.
She did. She carried. You and her(s).
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