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Slow Blues For My Brother

—tide is out and sunset streaks the corrugated sand
she tells me this is seen in the veins of every hand

lucky to mourn in her house where blossoms are more than a dozen.
I remember what you'd asked for—a bunch of red-roses brother, chosen

foretelling many years ago. Last night, I saw the cyclical-trillions individual
humanity in flower: distinct, isolated, residual

pluck a dozen from outside the window: bring your brother these roses,
she said, so I plucked two budding roses on one stem, and bought another ten
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Saturday, January 11, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: lament
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6/24/2021 11:24:21 PM # 1.0.0.634