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You Can't Even Clink


by Darryl Price


 

 

your matching glass up to mine in the air anymore, or click

your widening fingernails against the hard bed rail in

protest of anything you might be feeling in the

 

depths of your nerves, but I swear I can

still hear you breathing in and out from your

saved paper thin sentences, watch you thinking in the

 

minute choices you made for every single word laid up or

down . They say you very much liked to play

for hours in the sunshine with your favorite flowers at hand

 

and any visiting bees, but as soon as another

person popped into the scene you were incredibly gone, bolted

behind shut doors quicker than a wind through a

 

light piece of blown brown hair. That hair haunts me to this day.

I've often looked into those flattened out black eyes, wondering

about the world they lived in. I was told

 

you had many poems from many admirers stuck all

around the rooms like pinned butterflies. None of these

wings would lift you far enough away from the

 

carbon monoxide fumes to set you free from the

folly of your own unique fact. Everything settles. The

next stir may bring us closer to some peace

 

with understanding, if we let it, if we allow

it into the secret places. Or the forest may

decide for us where to bury the lost evidence.

 

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