The news comes in a little bit like the dust
on a sultry afternoon, late, when mauve shadows
start to lengthen, in hazy motes, or like rust
slowly creeping across the iron windows
in a silent hut after seasons run
their lonely courses, or the winded child
who carries messages his elders shun
and cannot grasp in proper rhythms, filed
around the edges like false coins: your words
never make sense to me, your worried looks
annoy the happiness of other worlds
we shared, and I long to handle aging books
whose pages crumble, searching for faded lines
of what once curled those letters and blurred the
signs.
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