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Funeral

John Foulcher

Dec 01 2011

0 mins

Snow swarms in the air
and the earth huddles beneath us.
We shuffle in the cold
that holds us like great hands.
A sister sings Ave Maria,
the notes shivering a little.
At last there’s the blessing and silence,
a train away from the dead.
In the warmth of our apartment,
we take off our clothes
and lie by the window,
holding each other.
The snow is like a painting
by Pissarro, where all things are made
from a single point. We cannot see the street.
 

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