The last finger folds of grief,
the sad-coloured twisted tissues,
loitering with noxious blubbings.
Where is my father now?
who once touched my being,
but only now my solitude.
How I curse his work's librarian clerk
who wrote to ask
'Please return your book, it's overdue'
just a month after, as if they didn't know.
John Scully's Other Poems
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