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  • And there we heard
    thirty-five sighs
    in the skies over Lockerbie.

    How startling, then,
    to find yourselves,
    feet and fingers spread,
    to catch a phrase,
    recount a story,
    and let us know
    how this we carry.

    “I’m over here,” you’d have said.
    “Look harder.”

    The mute telephones.
    Such fallen keys,
    you will not be calling—
    just turning our heads
    on windy days
    and catching us unawares
    in the midst of errands
    to stamp your heels
    or whisper your palms together,
    overwhelming elegies
    that tug at the roots.

    Do we reach settlement with
    maps you’ll not draw
    or calls you won’t return?

    If only to say, “That’s all right;
    we’ll wait for you inside.”

    Weddings for wakes,
    pushing white over black,
    tying double Windsors and
    pressing the skin.

    It wasn’t what you heard.

    We always worry over late flights
    and would rather you come home.

    We would have you know.



    Image credit: Seth Anderson via Flickr under the Creative Commons License (http://www.flickr.com/photos/swanksalot/4816443415/in/photostream/)
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