Poetry

After your service, Wal.

I am driving back from the plainness of a church, back down the way we came this morning for your funeral, back through and back into the world, back from where we had been collected into ourselves, hearing the dumb hooves of words, held by a damp, mizzling light there,   stripped and reduced and freed. Each one of us—sharing like communion bread, what we share with you—a death.   I am driving back through the light of an ordinary day as if on a flight, descending into the torn waste of it. It seems scrappy, dirty—the blown plastic wrapping, …

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