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A Question of Healing These are legendary days, there are no dead seconds. I have left the Israel Stone-- I've collected my weeping, full bowls of it, full servings on the freshly cut grass. They sour with daffodils from the hill, upon the last thought of mine, close to where your son rests with the diligent flame-- a mother's comfort. These are the doors she would have stood in. These are the doors that gave birth to our worry. The quilts are spread on them like garbage bags, no air, but her knocked breath and its quick jerking stutter on cottage cheese-- its cultured allowances. The boredom. Her life. They are what drained us. Not the sugar or the spells-- but their limits. Now it has come for me to judge the reason, the cure so quiet I hardly notice it. It sleeps with my grandfather in the deserted den. He has replaced the life I've inherited with new pictures. |
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