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  • (for Marcus, Ruth, Harvey, Dyane, and Chris)

    I go about my business when a draft
    blows tortured folds of grandfather’s remains
    the dollars, menus, papers ruled and graphed
    a thousand windswept origami cranes

    my grandmother’s in ghosts of stitches past
    my father in the beach, the tide-worn stone
    the memories, like time, are made to last
    just moments, like a fly upon a bone

    time beings all until our being’s done
    and we imbue some object in our death
    a Dylan song, an origami swan
    some nothingness packed tightly in a breath

    what’s left of us is carried on a breeze
    this stillness, woe, can bring us to our knees
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