FAREWELL Comments

Something falters, one has smoked too much, flees
coughing into the orchard, autumn breathes



narrowly, silent as a bed this is, it's silent
a mouth, only the snails on dead wood move



one would like to keep sitting here on a stone
for hours or centuries, living on a brimming



cup left behind when summer flesh and spirit
in hoarse three-part choir mortalized themselves -
...
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