22 January 2011


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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