the only contstant, change, the
sureness of the seasons we
mark off on the calendar, careful
in our commemorations of those
unmarked dates, your birthday,
the driving rain that stopped
our shopping, the first and
last speeches graved on
the tablets of our memories,
dredged back to first-freshness
by a taste, a smell, a look,
the grey color of the sky before
snow, the particular groovings in
the cut of a key, cold in
the hand, the sound of it turning
an echo of others
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