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“They have given, but it is our memory”

If there was a kindly way to do (poetry)
I would have been (blankly) by now
grinning as I write or shoulder (to) shoulder
say ” this is the saddest part of the film ”
and I know it, as well as it eats at my silence
when I do not move
as truthfully as I might when the weight of saying the wrong thing
is heavier than the carelessness of merely stringing words together

I lost her (in love) but still her
nowhere again is she coming back
(as if) (but) even now I know
that names were not as important as hair color
and the timing of the singular embrace

and no motivations move in the quite this (loss) among men has created
the tiny verb
I am like stillness (unhandled) cannot write
to you (or) one (girl is girl) might be another
the greatest loss (or) test is that
the words one uses will never be as correct as the memory is
when it is thought of to oneself

that winding (isness) that does not (now) or never include
our own saddest breathable part
it gets tossed to another
that is how one becomes a minority
not having arrived at the (tabled) verse
by the witness gene that holds the most awkward bone
(in place) to (where) while (many cities) we should have been
deep inside the oak (it’s) oakness eludes
the gravity we take with us as we remember

a (her) who goes by the name
of the type of loss one keeps
(heavy) hammered away at
while witnessing words (lift) themselves
a million miles away from the authors intent.


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